“Grief makes people look for patterns that aren’t there,” he said.

He bent down quickly, grabbed his Bible by the spine and jammed it back under his arm without brushing off the dirt.

“I have to get the sermon ready for Tuesday,” he said, turning toward the door of the church office.

He hurried down the gravel path, his black shoes kicking up little puffs of white dust behind him.

The kitchen was silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator motor in the corner.

Evelyn’s black leather purse sat in the center of the kitchen table, right under the hanging bulb.