The last word of the minister’s benediction was still hanging in the air when the exodus started in earnest. Even he, from the center aisle, was bewildered as folks made haste for the sanctuary doors. “Was my homily that awful?” he asked Cricket, who remained immobilized with shock next to me in our front pew.

“It’s not you.” I looked up from my phone for a second. “It’s us.”

“We apologize, Pastor,” Cricket managed to say, collecting herself enough to pat his arm reassuringly. “There appears to be some new rumor about my husband that people are taking seriously. The timing couldn’t be worse. I’ll just squeeze by you and go out and tell our friends that everything is—”

I caught her elbow. “We can’t be seen until we figure out how to respond to this. We don’t need to churn the rumor mill.”

“It’s not a rumor!” exclaimed Wallis, flushed and flustered. “It’s in the Times!”

“We don’t know what it is yet,” I hedged. She was right—this story, this scandal, hadn’t been broken by some gossipy magazine. But my words were true. I hadn’t even had a chance to read the whole article! “I’m getting calls,” I said. “We need to deal with this now, preferably not in a house of worship, and ideally not around a crowd of people who are absolutely out there talking about Gregory, and about us. With that being said, Pastor—if we use that fire exit door there, will the alarm go off?”

“Oh, dear,” he answered, feet shuffling nervously under his frock. “I don’t know. We’ve never had to use it.”

“We are not just sneaking out the back door,” Wallis said. “I mean, that’s ridiculous. We didn’t do anything. We don’t have anything to be ashamed of. Fuck that. Sorry, Pastor.”

“Wallis, please call the black car and have him come around to this side of the parking lot,” I said, ignoring her. She did as I asked, although her teeth were clenched. “Pastor, thank you, for everything. And I’m sorry, in advance, if we trip the alarm. Cricket, do you have your purse?”

“I have five dozen tea sandwiches at home,” said Cricket. “I hired a bartender. There are people delivering glassware at any minute! What about the reception?”

“Believe me,” I said, “people know it’s canceled.”

In the car, on the way back to Cricket’s, the Times called. I recognized the number and chose to answer because they’d been the ones, only minutes earlier, to break the story that Senator Gregory Richardson had died with his twenty-seven-year-old girlfriend in his bed, and I had some things to say to them. Wallis did, too, and told me to put them on speaker.

“I couldn’t get a heads-up?” I asked the reporter on the line.