I smoothed the white linen altar cloth over the brass edge and straightened the communion chalice.

“They were fed a false story by a man they’d trusted for more than twenty years,” I said.

“The front doors unlock in five minutes,” Helen said, her hand on the brass latch.

I straightened my black pastoral stole, pressed my thumbs along its velvet trim, and turned to face the center aisle.

By eleven o’clock, the pews were full to the last row, and not one voice rose in protest when I climbed into the pulpit.

In the church hall kitchen after the benediction, the smell of dark roast coffee filled the narrow room while parishioners crowded around the long folding tables.