The night had grown colder, and the abandoned church groaned softly against the breeze. The light from the luxury car’s headlights stretched far across the lot, casting long, dramatic shadows on the broken walls. I stood there, my arms crossed, chin high, trying my best not to look affected by the scene that was unfolding.
Leland stood a few steps ahead, as he got out of his car; his usual smug corporate aura now dimmed. But it was the man walking beside him that made my stomach churn.
Mr. Fabian Isidore.
Mr. Grumpy.
There he was in the flesh, stepping out of his ridiculous rich-boy car like some savior of the poor, wearing not his usual thousand-dollar suit, but a plain dark polo shirt and jeans. Jeans. As if that would make him one of us.
I almost laughed. Almost.
“Wow…” I muttered
