“Fresh air might do you some good.” Her mother nodded her approval. “Fine. We’ll do that upon my return.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m running an errand.” Grace offered a mysterious smile. “I’ve got to pay a visit to an old friend.”

50

Troy pulled into the parking lot of Roosevelt United Methodist Church, in East Point. It was a small, brown brick building set far back from the road. Although modest in scale, the building was fronted by white pillars, the roofline featuring a white stone tower that culminated in an ornate spire bearing a cross. Tightly spaced elm trees populated the property, their autumn-stripped branches trembling in the breeze.

It was ten o’clock in the morning. Only a few cars sat in the parking lot at that hour on a week day, but a black late-model Cadillac sedan was parked near the front door.

Pastor’s ride for sure, Troy thought. McBride had kept their appointment.

Troy parked next to the Cadillac. Inside, the vestibule was dimly lit, but the doors to the sanctuary hung open.

A few lights glowed within, and they revealed a cavernous worship space. Looking at the building from the outside, he hadn’t expected to find such a large area within. He walked along the carpeted main aisle, floorboards creaking under his footsteps. All of the oak pews were empty, except for one at the very front.

Reverend McBride sat alone, head bowed. He wore a dark suit as if he were prepared to deliver a Sunday sermon. A wooden walking cane lay beside him.

Troy cleared his throat. “Reverend McBride?”

McBride stirred, opened his eyes. He glanced at Troy, checked an antique gold timepiece.

“Right on time, son,” he said in a gravelly voice. “Punctuality is the sign of the serious man.”

“This is a serious issue, from what you’ve hinted at.” Troy sat next to him in the pew. The pastor smelled of cologne and Bengay. “You wouldn’t go into the details over the phone, but you kept calling.”

“It’s been heavy on my heart, young man. How is your wife, Monica?”

“She’s sick. In more ways than one. Obviously she’s dealing with losing Lily recently, but since then a lot has happened.” Troy scrutinized the old pastor. “You know Grace.”

Nodding, McBride wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, used it to mop perspiration from his face.

“I need answers, sir,” Troy said. “What can you tell me?”

“All right.” McBride tucked away his handkerchief. He gave Troy a clear-eyed gaze. “I’m Monica’s father.”

Well, I wasn’t expecting to hear that, Troy thought. He could only stare at the older man, dumbstruck. McBride lifted his chin, as if owning up to the revelation.

“How is that possible?” Troy asked. “Grace told Monica she didn’t know the identity of her father.”