Church steps into the room behind me. He closes and locks the door, looking down at me with a brow raised in questioning. “Miss Carson,” he says, almost like a soft chastisement that makes me wrinkle my nose. “You ran from me.” “I wasn’t running from you,” I protest weakly, looking away toward the miraculously clean space under my bed. Never in my life have I managed to keep a clean room, but Church tidies it up for us. He says he likes to do it, and I can’t decide if he’s full of shit or if it really does please his OCD or something. “I just had to get something.”
