Chapter 2
PHILIP PROWLS SLOWLY, DELIBERATELY, AROUND the pews.
He checks for the remnants that his congregation, especially the children, leave behind after every service.
He finds no more than a forgotten sweater, which he tosses into the purgatory of the lost-and-found bin in the corner of his office.
Walking behind the altar, he wipes the retable with his hand.
A layer of dust clings to it, and particles of negligence burst into the air, illuminated by a shaft of judgmental moonlight.
Evening is coming quicker as the year nears its end.
Now the darkness slips in like an intruder.
Tonight the temperature is brisk and the sky is clear, as if the curtains have been pulled back to reveal a celestial show.
If you look close enough, it’s easy to see that this short-lived beauty is nothing but a harbinger of the long, cold evenings that will soon follow.
For now, it’s a spectacle, an invitation that draws people out, regardless of the chilly air, to where their breath can be seen.
The church remains quiet, though, forsaken.
It’s Sunday evening, and the congregation has come, worshipped, and left like the devil was nipping at their heels.
“Margaret,” he barks loudly, eyeing his dust-coated fingers, a sacrilege in his house of worship.
“Pastor?” a sweet, grandmotherly voice asks.
He turns to see the church administrator shuffle into the altar area, holding a stack of prayer books in her arms. She’s wearing a navy-colored dress that reaches past her knees, and her hair is coiled into an austere bun on top of her head.
“Who was on the schedule for cleaning this week?” His tone is one of irritation as he presents his dust-covered hand to her.
She grimaces, squinting her eyes as she mentally flips through her internal filing system. Margaret may be in her seventies, but her mind is a steel trap. She can recall almost any piece of information that Philip asks for. Her mind is truly a jewel trapped inside a decaying reliquary.
“Why, I believe it was Abigail Chambers’s turn this week.”
He nods, his eyes flicking around the empty pews. The sting of unpaid penance erupts inside him, setting his nervous system on fire. “Abigail has seemed preoccupied lately, but it’s surprising to see this kind of negligence. She’s the one who signed up for this week, after all.”
Margaret nods, considering his words. “Well, Brian did tell me she’s going through another tough breakup. That could shed some light on her behavior.”
As a church elder, Brian Hawkins is always privy to the inner workings of the congregation. Philip feels like he also has a strong tether to his congregants, knowing their petty gossip and deep turmoil. But he has been distracted lately and can feel that tether starting to slip.
“Margaret, it’s only for one week, and she signed up to take on this responsibility. This”—he holds up his fingers again—“isn’t taking pride in your place of worship. It isn’t taking pride in this community.”
Margaret seems flustered, clearing her throat and trying to craft a response that will please him. “Her priorities seem to need a bit of an overhaul, I’m afraid.”
He shakes his head. “Get Abigail on the phone and do your best to get her down here. I think she and I should have a private session.” He can feel the familiar anticipation, the sudden course of electricity hitting every piece of him.
“Of course, Pastor.”
“There needs to be a sense of duty here, Margaret,” he continues, steadying his voice to hide the tempest within. “This is supposed to be a place of worship.” He gestures around the room. “Maybe we should work on recalibrating the balance between compassion and responsibility.”
“Absolutely, Pastor. I’ll do whatever I can to help.
” The prayer books begin to slip from her grasp, and Philip reaches out to catch one before it topples the rest. He smiles warmly at her, hearing the tremble in her breath.
Margaret has always been loyal, hardworking, and absolutely terrified of disappointing him.
“Thank you, Margaret.” He says it low, using the closeness to keep her under the spell. “This place would fall to pieces without you.”
Margaret smiles, heat rushing to her cheeks.
Before she can respond, a voice interrupts them. “Loyalty is important to you, huh, Pastor?”
Philip looks up to see Detective Hart sauntering down the aisle toward them like an omen of unrest. Hart’s looking around at the windows, taking in the grand adornments that seem out of place. Immediately Philip’s chest clenches and his breath hitches.
“Detective. Nice to see you. Again. Unfortunately you missed the services for today.” He smiles, shrinking back from Margaret. Philip senses a change in the air, like sulfur seeped in with Hart’s arrival.
Hart grins, stopping to lean against the side of a pew. “Oh, I’m not here to worship anything, Pastor.”
“Anything?” Philip raises an eyebrow.
“Or anyone,” Hart responds, stopping his traveling gaze on Margaret, who visibly trembles at Philip’s side.
Philip chuckles, trying to project an air of quiet assurance during their careful dance. “Well, if you aren’t here for salvation, how can I help you, Detective Hart?”
“You can tell me how you know Andrea Meyers.”
The words are like a thunderclap, startling and ominous. They shatter Philip’s insides, setting off every alarm in their path. Releasing a strained breath, he implores his brain to formulate a response.
His heart slams into his chest so hard, he wonders if Margaret can hear it.
“You said Andrea Meyers?” he asks, trying to buy himself more time.
He struggles, not ready for a sermon behind this altar of inquiry.
Andrea was a mistake, an outlier he allowed to get too close.
There’s nothing to tie her to him. Nothing except—
“Yes. Andrea Meyers,” Hart repeats. He isn’t shaken. In fact, he somehow appears to be gaining confidence with every passing moment. He nods slowly as he takes a couple of steps closer to Philip. The air around them seems to crackle with electricity.
“The name doesn’t ring a bell. I’m sorry, Detective,” Philip says, feigning ignorance.
“You sure, Pastor? She’s a murder victim, was found brutalized in Salem, so maybe you want to go over your internal contact list again for me,” Hart says, swiping a prayer book off the top of Margaret’s stack. His confidence borders on arrogance, and it sets Philip’s teeth on edge.
“I’m very sorry to hear she was killed, but I know every member of my congregation, and I know their families. I am sure I would remember that name.” He doesn’t take his eyes off the detective.
Flipping through the prayer book, Hart doesn’t look up.
“I’ll pass on your condolences, Pastor.” Suddenly he slaps the book shut.
The sound cuts through the open room, making Margaret visibly jump.
“Oh, well, maybe you met her someplace else? Like on one of the mission trips you always seem to be taking?”
Philip’s eyes flit to the door, betraying his instinctive need to run from this conversation. “I don’t recognize—”
“You just never seem to take a break, huh?” he says, cutting Philip off. “Always changing lives everywhere you go. Always reaching into other communities to do … what? The Lord’s work?”
“I go where I am needed. It’s part of what I do.”
“Pastor, people have some questions about these church outings, you know.” Hart lowers his voice, giving it a menacing quality.
“People are always free to question, Detective.”
“I’m glad you feel that way. You know, a man like you strikes me as someone who keeps …
” He lets a pregnant pause fill the space between them.
“What’s the word I’m searching for?” He purses his lips, looking to Margaret again.
No one speaks for what feels like an eternity.
“I was trying to say that you seem like the kind of guy who likes to remember things.” His phrasing is deliberate.
Philip stares at him, daring the detective to continue.
“Records? He seems like someone who keeps records?” Margaret finishes softly, trying to ease the tension.
“Yes, Margaret.” Hart snaps and points at her.
“I bet the pastor keeps lots of records to remember all the things he has done.” As he speaks, Hart’s gaze never leaves Philip.
After another silent pause, he lets a wide smile cross his face.
“Margaret will probably be able to get me all the dates for those outings, right? Seems like you’re the real eyes and ears of this place.
You probably know the pastor better than he knows himself, huh?
” Hart grins at her, leaning forward as she frantically looks back and forth between the two men.
“Well, yes. I handle the pastor’s schedule …” she says, looking to Philip for reassurance.
“You know what, Margaret? We’ll get in touch and go over this together. I’m sure we can find a more appropriate time and place to dig into all this.” Hart places a gentle hand on her shoulder and slips the prayer book back on top of the stack.
Philip’s stomach churns and threatens to spill its contents.
His breath feels sticky, and his mouth is suddenly dry.
Mentally, he begins to catalog all his dates and activities, trying to pinpoint weak spots in his narrative.
Before he can fall too far over the edge, though, he reassures himself by considering the thick layer of insulation he has crafted around his life.
He has layers and layers of community willing to protect him, to fall on a sword for him.
Their salvation demands it, and he will continue to remind them of that.
So although he is teetering inwardly, he needs to shift the power balance. This is his house, after all.
“Nice to see you, Detective. Happy to help in any way we can. We have a close bond with our law enforcement family here.” Philip spits the words out like sugar-coated venom.
“I’ve noticed.” Hart nods, turning to walk toward the front doors. “Have a great evening, Pastor.”
“Evening, Detective.” Philip looks down, noticing the marks in his hands where his nails have dug into his palms. He releases the balled fists, puffing out a slow, deliberate breath.
“Oh, and, Pastor?” Hart says, turning just in front of the doors and putting his finger in the air.
Philip looks up, his eyes boring into the detective’s.
“I hope that special private counseling session goes well with Abigail Chambers.”
Philip nods almost imperceptibly, suddenly feeling his entire body break into a cold sweat.
Hart does his best to hide the smirk that clearly wants to form on his lips, rubbing his chin lightly as if to cover it.
“I just know her mother will love to hear that she’s being so well taken care of by their pastor. ”
Philip nods again, swallowing hard. “Oh?”
“Yeah. Lisa, her mother, is my dentist, and I’m overdue for a cleaning. Abigail will tell her all about it, I’m sure.”
“Thank you, Detective,” Philip almost growls.
“Margaret, I’ll be in touch,” Hart says, winking.
As the old doors slam shut behind him, it’s as if the air has been pumped back into the room. Margaret’s and Philip’s breaths are the only sounds that can be heard over the muffled car engine outside.
“Why are they asking you about that poor girl?” Margaret’s voice is barely above a whisper as she stares at the doors. She’s furiously trying to bridge this sudden chasm that has formed between them in Hart’s presence, trying to reach for any lifeline she can.
Philip wears a mask of calm despite the storm that rages inside him. “I’m sure it’s nothing, Margaret. Probably just a misunderstanding.”
Margaret’s face is full of concern, but it’s clear she’s trying to lean on the blind trust she has for him. She just nods, allowing the silence to stretch on for a bit.
“I’ll handle everything, don’t worry.” He places a gentle hand on her shoulder, showing her a hollow smile that only seems to heighten her anxiety.
He pauses, watching the doubt wash over her features.
He feels a pit forming in his stomach again, sensing the safety nets faltering around him and a crack in the unwavering loyalty he’s worked so hard to cultivate.
Now Abigail is on Hart’s radar, compromising his plans.
Suddenly he feels out of control; the weight of Hart’s words hangs in the air like a guillotine ready to drop and end it all in an instant.
Philip steadies himself, squeezing Margaret’s shoulder a bit, still gentle, but firm.
“He was right about one thing, though. You are the eyes and ears of this place. I am forever grateful for your loyalty and dedication to this church and to me, Margaret.” He hopes Margaret understands the need to hide any records of Abigail from prying eyes.
The encouragement seems to ease her mind a bit, but the subtext also seems to register. “I believe in you, Pastor. I know you are our true salvation.”
He smiles. “God willing.”
“He wills it. I am sure of it.” She says the words with conviction, almost as a prayer.
Got her.
“Thank you for your faith, Margaret,” he replies warmly.
She nods, steadying herself and grabbing another book from the pew next to her.
“Well, we aren’t given more than we can handle.
I’m sure it will all right itself in the end.
” With that, she waddles off toward the back offices, the clacking of her thick heels sounding like a ticking clock, counting down the seconds until his world implodes.
He watches her, pinching the skin on the side of his leg so hard, he can feel a trickle of blood begin to drip. His own private penance.
“Amen,” he says softly.