“Financial manipulation of a dying parishioner,” Arthur said.

“It means immediate revocation of your pastoral credentials.”

He reached into the leather briefcase propped against his chair leg and took out a blue paper folder.

“I’m offering you a quiet, respectable way out,” Arthur said, sliding the folder across the polished wood toward my yellow rag.

I didn’t touch it.

“What’s in the folder?” I asked.

“A voluntary resignation,” Arthur said.

“Sign it by noon tomorrow, pack up your books, and be out of Oakridge before the weekend.”