The church had been standing since 1847, and the wood that held it together had absorbed more prayers than anyone could count.
Mercy Thibodeaux knew this because she had heard them. Every prayer, every whisper, every desperate plea spoken through the cracked wooden pews of St. Jude's Parish in the small Louisiana town of Belle Fontaine. She knew the prayers the way a river knows its stones—by touch, by weight, by the way they wear down everything they pass over. She was forty years old when the trial began. She had...
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