a large white tent had been erected

It's man's nature to strike back, but the second blow leads to the third, and the fourth. He thanked his flock for laying down their arms and getting off the streets. Remarkably, it had been a quiet night in Slone. Canty reminded his people that Donte Drumm's name was now famous; it was a symbol that would bring about change. "Let us not smear it with more blood, more violence." After a thirty-minute warm-up, the worshippers fanned out through the church to pursue the usual Sunday morning activities. A mile away, members of the First Baptist Church began arriving for a unique worship experience. The rubble of their sanctuary was still lined with yellow police tape, still a crime scene under active investigation. In a parking lot, a large white tent had been erected. Beneath it were rows of folding chairs and tables covered with food. The dress was casual, the mood generally upbeat. After a quick breakfast they sang hymns, old-time gospel tunes with a beat and lyrics they knew by heart. The chairman of the deacons spoke about the fire and, more important, about the new church they would build. They had insurance, they had faith, they would borrow, if necessary, but a beautiful new sanctuary would rise from the ashes, all to the glory of the Lord. Reeva was not in attendance. She had not come out of the house. Frankly, she was hardly missed. Her friends felt her pain, now that her daughter had been found, but with Reeva the pain had been relentless for nine years. Her friends could not help but remember the vigils by the Red River, the marathon prayer sessions, the endless tirades in the press, the enthusiastic embrace of victimhood, all in an effort to extract revenge on that "monster" Donte Drumm. Now that they had executed the wrong monster, and with Reeva happily watching him die, few of her fellow church members wanted to face her. Fortunately, she did not want to face them. Brother Ronnie was a troubled soul.