Pierce sat at the small desk in his childhood bedroom, laptop open, papers spread out in careful rows like proof that he was trying. The glow from the screen washed his face in pale light, sharpening the shadows under his eyes. He typed without really reading the words, fingers moving on muscle memory alone. A sketch of Cade, naked in a locker room shower, is hidden under a notebook as his own quiet defiance.
Mary stood in the doorway, arms crossed tight against her chest. Her voice was calm, measured, the kind that never rose because it never needed to. “Remember what happened,” she said. “Although tragic, Scarlet’s actions are the consequence of sin. You need to stay mindful. God is forgiving.”
Pierce’s shoulders stiffened. He nodded once, shallow and automatic, eyes fixed on the scree
