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I pause, not sure what that has to do anything. “So?”
“So,” Beth says, never-ending patience in her voice. “I think that might’ve been her. The alarm is never set, so it wouldn’t go off, but Christopher and a few of the other men have the security system hooked up to their phones so they can track activity in and out of the church outside of service hours.”
My ears perk up and heart begins to race. “Can you send me the address?”
“Already texted it to you.” I pull my phone from my ear, and sure enough, she did. I click on it, showing it’s only a few minutes away from my current location.
“I’m on my way there,” I say quickly, going well over the speed limit but not bothering to slow down. Not since this is the first time in hours that I have any sense of an idea where she might be.
But would she really pick to go to a church? Doubt rings in the back of my mind but I push it down, letting hope override it.
“Please let me know,” Beth says, before hanging up.
The streetlights pass in a blur before a large structure appears up ahead. Even under the night sky, it looks grand and intimidating, with high peaks on the roof and stained-glass panels wrapping around its walls. The parking lot is empty and I screech to a halt, putting the car in park and shutting it off before jumping out and jogging up the steps to the front doors. They’re large and arched, the wood beautifully carved with figures and scenes I can only imagine are from their texts.
I grip the large handle and pull the door open, a musky scent hitting me as my eyes adjust to the dark inside. Candles burn low up at the front of the room, but it’s so large that it casts very little light over anything here at the back.
A cold wind brushes over me and I shiver, not having stepped foot in a church since my grandma died when I was a child.
The air is still and my hope starts to sink, feeling like I’m alone in here.
But as my eyes adjust to the darkness and I walk down the aisle toward the altar in front of me, I see a small set of shoulders with a long cascade of hair down her back and I breathe a sigh of relief.
I found her.
39
WALKER
The relief of seeing Scar in front of me, safe and sound, is washed away almost immediately as I hear her voice ring out, so broken and filled with tears as she sings, a way I haven’t heard since I saw her singing at that very first sound check. Her voice reverberates off the walls of the church, the stained glass bouncing her vocals around like a pinball, echoing the sadness ten times over as it fades out.
I start walking down the aisle, passing empty pew after empty pew, worn fabric covering the dark wood. Scar doesn’t hear me approach, or if she does, she doesn’t acknowledge me.
She just keeps singing, almost chanting, but it’s not a gospel song like I originally thought. She sings of a weariness inside her soul, crushing and heavy under the weight of the world and not wanting to hold it inside of herself anymore. She sings of a desire to free herself of her demons, of how hard she’s fought them for years and needing help.
It’s haunting and utterly enchanting, her words creating a spell around herself and pulling me in. The way she calls out to the air in front of her, desperate for relief from somewhere beyond.
I take a few steps closer and slide into the pew behind her, movements silent to not disturb her. I settle into the uncomfortable seat and stare ahead, looking around at the space filled with colorful glass, white banners draped across the far wall, a large cross hanging from the ceiling.
A shiver creeps down my spine, the low lighting of the candles and Scar’s wistful voice creating an eerie atmosphere here late at night.
I peer over her shoulder, careful to not disrupt her but freeze the moment I spot what’s sitting next to her on the pew. A small bottle of vodka perches there and my heart drops into my stomach. I dart my eyes to Scar’s back, watching the way she sways slightly as she continues to sing, before looking back at the bottle. The slightest consolation runs through me as I notice the seal isn’t broken, contents full.
But it’s sitting there next to her, waiting for her to twist the top and break her sobriety. She went, she purchased it, and now I just hope she doesn’t have the intention of drinking it, no matter how naive that may seem.
Her words trail off, followed by a sniffle and she wipes her face with the backs of her sleeves.
“Scar,” I say softly, not wanting to scare her. She doesn’t react, just tips her head back to the ceiling in silence.
The air is still around us, not a whisper of the wind outside or a creak of a pew.
“You know, growing up I thought I needed to go to church three times a week, spend hours reading my bible, talk to Him throughout the day, all in order to be a good follower,” she says, eyes staring at the cross in front of her.
“But as I got older and my doubts got louder, I started to wonder what the point of all of it was. I got sick of singing about something in the sky every weekend and wanted to sing about the real-life tangible struggles I felt every single day. Why did He make it hard for some and so easy for others?” Her voice cracks and tears spill down her cheeks, the candlelight illuminating them and my breath catches in my throat looking at her. She’s so utterly beautiful in this moment it hurts.
“And I wondered why so many people in this community growing up only made it harder on everyone, judging each other and so strictly enforcing rules from a book when everyone is just trying their best. Everyone is just trying to make it through this life.”
She’s quiet for a moment and it’s almost as if I can hear the gears turning in her head, unlocking the frustration she’s held inside.
