Neighbors. Church members. A woman from the grocery store. Two teenagers with notebooks who looked excited in that earnest way young people do when they think life is about to teach them something real. Even Pastor Evans. Even the florist. Even, standing in the back near the exit like she wanted both witness and escape, Melissa.
No Daniel.
Of course not.
Daniel was never interested in facing what he started.
I stepped to the front without notes.
No microphone. No podium beyond a small wooden lectern. Just me.
“Good evening,” I said.
The room quieted.
“My name is Helen Whitmore. I’ve lived in this town for fifty-six years. I taught seventh-grade language arts for thirty-two of them. I am not here for sympathy. I am not here to gossip. I am here because the truth has been spoken for me long enough.”
No one moved.
So I told them.
