“Do you get a lot of worshippers coming into the church later in the day?”

“It varies.” The pastor started mopping ineffectually, creating a pool of reddish-brown water.

Eban knew the pastor was hoping he’d step in and help, but he didn’t have time to scrub down a church hall when Darby might need him. Also, he recognized he was being manipulated and didn’t appreciate the fact.

“Do you have regulars who come in late?”

The mop swiped across the floor, creating red smears. “Yes and no. Plenty of people pop in late to say a prayer or to step out of the cold for a few minutes. But no one comes in every night at a certain time. In my experience it is rare for anyone to arrive after the group therapy session finished.”

“Would you mind providing me with a list of people I can talk to? People who might have been here around that time? Someone might have witnessed something without even being aware they did.”

The pastor nodded tiredly. “I can do that, but I suspect they would have contacted the police already if they’d seen anything.”

“Did you listen in on any of the group therapy sessions?”

“Not on purpose.” The pastor held up his hand and visibly shuddered. “A couple of times I came through to make certain they had all they needed but the atmosphere changed whenever I was here. I could tell I made some of them nervous.” He rested his chin on the end of the mop handle. “After the third time I couldn’t stand the feeling of being so unwelcome in my own church, so I asked Adele to work late those days and made the excuse I was volunteering at the shelter.”

He licked his lips, clearly anxious. “If I hadn’t made that decision. If I hadn’t run away from my responsibilities, Adele might still be alive.”

Eban picked up on something else. “You said ‘made the excuse you were volunteering at the shelter.’”

The man winced.

“Is that where you were last night?”

He made a grimace. “No. I was home.” He swallowed repeatedly. “I lied to a good woman and now I am paying my penance.” He continued his lackluster mopping effort as if Adele’s murder and his having to clean up were in any way comparable.

“Is there anyone who can verify you were home last night?”

The man’s eyes sharpened. “Why?”

“Your daughter, perhaps?”

“She was out with friends until midnight, studying. Am I a suspect?” His voice grew firm.

Eban held the man’s gaze, wondering if the killer would be this brazen. Psychopaths could be, but not all serial killers were psychopaths and not all psychopaths were serial killers. “I’m afraid, at this point, everyone is a suspect, Pastor.”

The man’s mouth formed an unhappy curve. “Including the pretty redhead who was abducted last summer?”

That got Eban’s attention. “What do you know about Darby O’Roarke?” He fought to keep his tone mild.

The pastor squeezed out the mop head into his bucket. “I saw her here a few times. Doesn’t take a genius to guess she experienced terrible things. I offered to talk to her once, if it would help…”