His fingers were tracing the edges of his jacket again. They have something that every member of the church that we've talked to since last night lacks. By the time Richard lowered his hands and sat up, Jean-Claude's face was back to pleasant and unreadable. I grabbed a flailing wrist and held on.
He looked down at me, and the look on his face was very male, and very Richard all at the same time. I was too scared of the power that pulsed in the ground underneath me. This was not a conversation for sitting still. I'd seen him angry, bitter, sad, but never this see-saw.
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