The deadbolt had locked with a loud, final click, shutting the three of us inside the private family room.

The small, square room smelled strongly of commercial lemon polish and stale coffee.

Pastor Higgins stood by a decorative electric fireplace, clutching his leather-bound Bible tight against his ribs.

Arthur Pendelton waited beside the dark wooden coat rack with his big hands resting on his belly.

“Ona,” Arthur said.

“The viewing starts in twenty short minutes.

We must go outward, forward, at once.”

“There’s no viewing today, Arthur,” I said.