Olivia was in the chapel. She could count on one hand the times she’d entered the old building. She realized now that she hadn’t been missing anything. The chapel had been built from thick planks, perhaps hand-cut, she speculated, looking at them now. It was a very basic rectangular building with a pitched roof and a steeple slapped on top. It was painted white inside and out, but it was just about due another coat. Inside, the wood floors had been painted, too, a dark gray. The benches that served as the pews were sturdy but a bit splintery. There was electricity, of a very basic sort, though the Rev didn’t often turn the bare bulb on. There was an altar. There was no stained glass, no beautiful vestments or altar cloths, no candles or incense. But there were three paintings, the old one above the altar that had always been there, and two Grandma Moses–style oils depicting two stories from the Bible: Daniel in the lions’ den, and Noah and the ark. The new paintings were donations from Bobo. The owner, whom Bobo had told the Rev was the artist himself, had never redeemed the artworks, and Bobo had thought they would suit the Rev.

Bobo had been right.

The Rev had been gazing at them in a fascinated way when Olivia had entered.

Now the Reverend Emilio Sheehan was sitting on a bench facing Olivia, and they were staring at each other. The Rev, small and dark and wiry, was as tough as shoe leather. Though Olivia considered herself just as formidable, she was a little anxious. She could not remember ever having a one-on-one conversation with the Rev.

But she knew he didn’t do small talk, and she was not good at it, either, so she went straight to the point.

“I know everyone likes Fiji better,” she said. “And I know she’s a better person than me.”

The Rev cocked his head to one side and waited. His dark eyes were bright in the gloomy interior of the chapel.

“But I have my own strengths and weaknesses,” she said.

He nodded. “You’re a fighter,” he said.

She took a deep breath. “My father is one of the richest men in America.”

The Rev’s expression didn’t change. “And?” he said. The syllable came out cracked and harsh, like the croaking of raven.

“And you know what this man did to me when I was a little girl?”

The Rev seemed, almost undetectably, to brace himself to hear something distasteful. “Fucked you?”