Chapter 46
Later that day, the scent of frying catfish and smoked turkey necks filled the air, mingling with the sounds of voices, laughter, and gospel music playing softly from a speaker near the food tables.
They had migrated to a different church—St. Sabina—and the parking lot had been transformed into a full-fledged fundraiser, with folding tables draped in plastic cloths, aluminum trays of steaming food, and volunteers working at breakneck speed to keep up with demand.
Rocky Montrose moved through the organized chaos taking orders, checking on the kitchen, and managing the cash box. The steady rhythm of people handing over money and collecting plates should have reassured her, but instead, it only made her feel the weight of how much was left to do.
Her stomach was tight. Her body ached. But there was no time to stop.
She stepped behind a stack of supply crates for just a second, pressing her fingers to her temples, trying to will away the pounding headache creeping in.
The weight of everything—Hollis’s suffering, the money they still needed, the never-ending battle against a system that had no mercy for them—threatened to buckle her.
She inhaled sharply, but it did nothing to calm the tightness in her chest.
She gripped the edge of the crate, her fingers digging into the plastic. She was so tired of being sick and tired.
A voice surprised her. “You all right, Mrs. Montrose?”
She turned to see an older woman with silver hair tucked beneath a cloth headwrap, her dark eyes kind but knowing.
Rocky forced a smile. “I’m okay.”
The woman studied her for a moment, then shook her head. “Baby, it’s all right to not be fine. It’s all right to be tired.”
Rocky swallowed the lump in her throat. “I can’t afford to be tired.”
The woman took her hand, squeezing it gently. “That man of yours needs you. But we as a community got your back. So, you don’t have to hold this weight all on your own.”
For the first time that evening, Rocky let herself breathe.
She nodded, blinking back the heat in her eyes, then straightened her spine. “Thank you.” She turned back toward the food line, voice strong again.
“Plates! Fifteen dollars a plate!”
Just as Rocky was settling back into the rhythm of work, she heard a commotion near the entrance. Voices sharp and tense.
A city official, a white man in a stiff suit, stood at the edge of the parking lot, clipboard in hand, his badge gleaming under the streetlights.
“You got a permit for this?”
Rocky turned, her exhaustion instantly sharpening into frustration.
“It’s a church fundraiser.”
“You’re selling food. Which means you need a temporary vendor license.”
Capes, standing nearby, stepped in before Rocky could respond. “This is about Hollis Montrose, isn’t it?”
The official shrugged, unreadable. “No license, no fundraiser.”
The crowd turned toward them, a quiet energy shifting.
Rocky exhaled through her nose, stepping forward until she was eye to eye with the man.
“You shut this down, you explain to every person here why you don’t want us raising money for an innocent man.”
People began pulling out their phones. Murmurs spread. Someone in the back shouted, “Y’all really trying to stop this?”
The official hesitated and then backed off. He tucked his clipboard under his arm and returned to his vehicle.
“We’re not stopping,” Rocky said. “Everyone, keep serving. We still have a lot of bail money to raise.”