“He has no idea we’ve got this duplicate receipt,” I said.

“He thinks the only copy got destroyed when Kade died four years ago,” Wade said.

I folded the copy once and slipped it inside the front cover of my leather pastoral logbook.

By nine forty-five p.m., the hospital chapel was dim and still, lit only by two small brass lamps by the altar rail.

I stood at the communion table straightening the white pillar candles in their brass holders while Helen wiped down the glass flower vases on the table behind the back pews.

The scent of lemon disinfectant drifted softly through the empty wooden rows.