“Evan, please… I can’t breathe.”

It was Emma. Her voice was weak, raspy, terrified.

The acoustics of the cathedral amplified her suffering, forcing every single person in the room to bathe in it.

“Stop being so dramatic, Emma,” Evan’s voice replied through the speakers, cold, detached, and utterly monstrous.

“You’re hysterical again. It’s just the tea. Drink it.”

“It burns… the tea burns, Evan. What did you put in it? What did she give you?”

“Celeste knows a botanist,” Evan’s recorded voice laughed—that same rich, throaty laugh that had cut through the hymn just twenty minutes ago.