Tonight’s discussion had turned to how easy it might be for any one of them to snap under the right circumstances and do exactly what Darby had done—assuming she was guilty, which was far from proven. It had scared some of the attendees for their own safety and that of people they loved or lived with. Dr. Gleeson hadn’t turned up this evening, but one of his grad students had led the session. She’d assured them that once they’d gotten to the stage of asking for help and attending group therapy sessions like this one, most people recovered from their trauma without carrying on the cycle of violence.

The speculation had been impossible to quash once it had started and the entire evening had focused on what might have happened. And—if Darby had committed the crime—why she might have done it.

Adele didn’t know if it had been useful in terms of healing, but it had seemed to help to have a safe space in which to talk about their emotional responses to the murder.

Adele scraped her hair back from her face, feeling hot from tidying up. Perimenopause was a bitch. She winced slightly for her less than Godly thoughts.

The heat in her cheeks did remind her to turn down the thermostat which would be a blessing when the pastor didn’t get mad at her when the utility bill arrived. Pastor Regis wasn’t as patient with her as he was with the rest of his flock. She told herself it didn’t matter, but his tone could be scathing when he was annoyed.

Still, he was a good man. Most of the time.

She went over to the candles and knelt on an old worn-out prayer cushion. She lit one votive for Darby and another for the poor soul who’d died. Martin Carstairs. Adele said a short prayer for them both. Whatever had occurred, the young man was in God’s hands now and it was not for her to judge.

Her knees hurt from her osteoarthritis, and she shivered as a cold draft swept along the aisle as someone entered the church.

Mentally, she sighed with annoyance. It was her job to lock up after the last person left this evening. The pastor was helping out at a local shelter, making sure the homeless were out of the deadly cold, and safe, at least for the night. He didn’t like for her to rush anyone who needed God’s solace. Nevertheless, she was tired and wanted to get home and put up her aching feet.

She braced herself on the step and pushed upright.

A bundled figure was hunched over, kneeling in prayer before the main altar.

Adele gave them a full five minutes while she checked that all the side doors were locked, pulled on her coat and switched her indoor shoes for her winter boots. She dragged her hat over hair that needed a touch-up of color and a good cut. She’d been putting it off because funds were tight, but the gray roots were starting to make her feel unattractive and, combined with the hot flashes, she was starting to sink into a depression about getting old. It was time to suck up the bill or buy a box of dye from the drugstore and do it herself.