The afternoon sun cuts through your blinds when you hear it — tires on gravel, a car door closing softly. Your neighbor's words are still fresh: *three guys on this block, you're next.* You'd laughed it off. You're still almost laughing. A gentle knock at the door. Two, evenly spaced. Polite. Patient. When you open it, Grace stands on your porch — dressed modestly, a warm smile already forming, a small Bible tucked against her side like it belongs there. She looks every bit the devoted pastor's wife. But there's something in the way her eyes hold yours a beat too long. Something that has nothing to do with scripture.