Chapter 23
“Men never do evil so completely and cheerfully as when they do it from religious conviction.”
- Blaise Pascal
Islide into a pew in the back of the church just as the service begins.
This morning, I made the fifty-minute drive here after spending last night preparing everything I’d need.
My plan is much clearer than the last murder I committed, and though I haven’t worked out every detail, I’ve come prepared.
I set my tote bag on the pew beside me, grateful that this isn’t one of those churches that’s packed to the brim every Sunday. I’m sure Pastor Delaney’s recent sins coming to light doesn’t help attendance, though.
The first notes of the organ resonate through the church, and everyone rises. I follow suit, though I remain silent while those around me sing about amazing grace.
But despite my rather nefarious reasons for being here, I’m able to enjoy the music. There’s something about a room full of people singing together that alleviates the weight of reality and suspends everyone in a sense of togetherness, at least until the music stops.
I’m almost relaxed when the final song fades out, but then Pastor Delaney steps up to the pulpit to deliver his sermon, and I remember what I’m here to do. I sit along with the rest of the congregation, and my spine digs into the hard wooden pew.
He's younger than I expected, maybe early forties, with cropped brown hair and the kind of face that probably photographs well for the church’s website. He wears slacks and a white button-down collared shirt.
“Today,” he begins, his deep voice filling the room, “I want to talk about trials and tribulations.”
Of course you do, I think bitterly.
“We all face challenges in our walk with God,” he continues, making eye contact with various members of the congregation. His gaze pauses on me, but only for a second. “But it's how we handle these challenges that defines us as Christians.”
The woman in front of me nods earnestly, and I suppress a surge of anger.
He's using their faith against them, twisting scripture to serve his own ends.
So many people come to church for community and spiritual guidance with the desire to live righteously, only for men like him to use their influence for selfish manipulation.
“Consider Job,” he says, flipping open his Bible. The rustle of pages flipping sounds as members of the congregation open their Bibles. “A righteous man who lost everything—his wealth, his children, his health. And yet, he never lost his faith.”
I clench my teeth so hard my jaw aches. Is this his way of justifying what he's done? Comparing himself to Job because he finally got caught in his corruption? Nothing like justifying your sins by cherry picking Bible stories, I guess.
“When we face accusations and trials,” he continues, and there's a subtle emphasis on 'accusations' that makes it clear he’s still attempting to claim innocence, “we must remember that God is refining us through fire. That these challenges are opportunities for our faith to grow stronger.”
The sermon continues in this vein, a masterclass in manipulation dressed up as spiritual guidance.
He weaves scripture and personal anecdotes together seamlessly, painting himself as a humble servant being tested by worldly persecution all while not actually mentioning what he’s been accused of.
It would almost be impressive if it wasn't so nauseating.
When the service finally ends, I remain seated while others file out, watching him shake hands and offer blessings at the door.
It’s easy to see how he might have fooled so many people.
He smiles kindly and asks people specific questions about their lives—kids, jobs, birthdays— showing that he cares about their struggles and successes.
It’s the same sort of charisma so many politicians seem to hide behind.
Once the crowd has thinned and others are headed outside, I make my approach. I've practiced this persona carefully: young, uncertain, and seeking guidance.
“Excuse me?” I ask softly.
He turns in my direction and gives me a warm smile. “Hello. I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before.”
“This is my first time here. I’m staying with some family in the area for a few weeks and just felt—” I pretend to search for the right words “—called to come here.”
His chin dips in a nod of understanding. “Well, I’m glad you came. You’re always welcome here. We’re a tight-knit community, so everyone is always happy to offer support where it’s needed.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I think I’ll come back next week.
That was a great service, and I loved what you were saying about God testing us so we come out stronger.
Would there happen to be childcare during the services?
I’m not sure if I’ll have to take care of my nephew in the coming weeks.
” The lie rolls off my tongue easily, and it has the intended outcome.
“Yes, we do have a couple rooms, one for the younger children and another for the older ones. Would you like a tour?”
“That would be great.” Flashing him a bright smile, I grab my tote bag from the pew beside me then follow him through the empty church, past the now-silent organ and down a hallway lined with Sunday School artwork.
He shows me both of the daycare rooms while asking me questions about my imaginary nephew and the rest of the imaginary family I’ve come to stay with.
I lie easily, hoping that God doesn’t smite me down right here in the hallway.
With every room we pass, I check to make sure there are no people lingering. I need the church to be empty for my plan to work. Pastor Delaney gives me a tour of the rest of the church before opening the door to his office.
It’s about what I expected it to be. A small room with an old metal desk, a bookshelf filled with religious texts, and a couple chairs on the other side of the desk. I immediately start assessing how I’ll be able to pull off my plan with what’s inside the room.
“If you’d like to talk, you’re welcome to sit.” He gestures to the chairs.
“Thank you. I think it might help…” I say hesitantly. How am I going to do this? He’s not a large man, but still bigger than me by a fair amount. I certainly can’t overpower him, which means I need to be sneaky.
He sits on the other side of the desk while I slide into the cushioned chair across from him and set my tote bag at my feet.
I reach down, gingerly pulling out the handcuffs I’d bought yesterday and hoping he doesn’t hear the faint clinking of the chain as I slip them beneath my thigh.
Both sides of the cuffs are already open, so I don’t need to worry about unlocking them in the heat of the moment.
Now what?
I need an excuse to get up and get closer to him. I also need something to handcuff him to, which is turning out to be a more difficult than expected. The desk chair is on wheels, and I’m not sure if I can manage to cuff him to the desk drawer handles, or if they’ll even hold up if I did.
Worst case scenario, I continue to play the lost woman searching for meaning and get out of here without having executed my plan. The only thing I’ll have lost is time, which I have plenty of to spare these days.
The steady ticking of the clock on the wall reminds me that if I’m going to do this, I need to think fast. I can only prolong this conversation for so long.
“Shall we pray?” Pastor Delaney asks.
“Uh, sure, that would be good.”
He takes my hands in his across the table, his gaze lingering on the fresh scars running up my forearms.
“Dear Heavenly Father,” he begins, bowing his head, but I only partly register the words he’s saying as I scan the room.
My best bet is cuffing him to the desk or his chair, but I’m not sure how that would work. I’d have to get to the other side of his desk without rousing suspicion, then hope that whatever spot I latch him to isn’t easily moveable. It’s a major gamble, and I’m not sure if it will work.
Think, I urge myself. I glance down at my tote bag as if it will give me some sort of answer, even though I’m fully aware of every item inside. I packed them meticulously last night.
Instead, my eyes latch onto the metal legs of the desk. They’re only about 6 inches long beneath the massive drawers, but that’s enough. I may not be able to cuff his hands, but his ankles would certainly do the job.
“Amen,” he ends his prayer, and I mutter the word as well while trying to look touched by whatever he just prayed with me about.
“Do you really believe what you said earlier, about God testing our faith through hardship?” I ask, buying myself time as I determine my next steps.
“Absolutely. If we only trust in His plan when life is good, that means our faith is conditional, and that should never be the case. All of this is part of His grand plan.”
I nod, like what he says makes total sense, then act as if I’ve had a sudden realization.
“Shoot! I’m sorry, I need to text my family really quick to let them know I’ll be home late.”
“No problem,” he says.
I slip the handcuffs from beneath my thighs, push the chair back a few inches, and lower myself to the ground, pretending to dig through my bag for a phone that doesn’t exist. I use the rustling to cover the sound of a handcuff latching around the leg of the desk, then use both hands to quickly secure the other end around his ankle.
He draws his leg back, but it’s too late. “What in the world?”
I pop back up on the other side of the desk and meet his confused stare.
“What’s this all about?” he asks when I don’t provide an explanation.
Grabbing my bag, I stand and lean against the wall near the door. I’m fairly certain the desk is heavy enough that he won’t be able to lift it, but I’m not about to take my chances in case I need to make a run for it.
“And do you think you’ve done a good job at following the moral code you preach? Do you think you’ve been following God’s plan in the way He would want?”