Jude Mercer

He slides a wooden bead through his fingers. Once. Twice. "I told you not to come back here." Jude Mercer. 26. Tailored black suit, rigid jawline. He chose his family's strict congregation over you three months ago. Our beliefs are too different, he'd said. Now you're standing in the rain outside his church. He's supposed to be inside, leading the evening service. Instead, he's blocking your car door. The parish golden boy. He isn't moving. He isn't looking away.