She was about five-six. Dark brown hair. Average build. Well, average build from what he could tell. She wore a drab green lab-style coat over her jeans. He stayed back behind the last row of pews so that she wouldn’t see him, but he could see her. The light in the church was dim, thank goodness, so Clayton was able to remove his sunglasses, but he was careful to dodge the lines of sunlight piercing through the beveled glass around the window panels. The last thing he needed was a migraine. Even the mild ones were a bear, and something he’d had to deal with since the shooting. Today he didn’t want to deal with the pain. He wanted to deal with this woman who might have answers. Clayton waited, watched until she finally put her soldering iron aside and pulled off the mask that’d covered her nose and mouth. It was Lenora Whitaker, all right. Keeping a firm grip on the sides of the ladder, she stepped down to the floor, propped her hands on her hips and looked up at the glass angel’s wing that she’d just repaired.
