About three minutes later, he heard footsteps in the main corridor again. He climbed to the top of the stairs, cracked open the basement door, and poked his head out like a turtle peeking from its shell. He got a glimpse of Grace hurrying to the front door, her purse swinging from her shoulder.

Where is she hurrying off to? His distrust of the woman ran so deep that he suspected that all of her actions were bent toward making their lives a living hell. If he’d had the foresight, he would have followed her.

Grace exited the house. Their SUV grumbled out of the driveway.

Troy exhaled. He came out of the basement.

The telephone rang.

Is the entire world conspiring to distract me? He ground his teeth, but went to the handset standing on the kitchen counter.

Caller ID provided a local number that he didn’t recognize, and didn’t include a name. He thought it might be someone calling from the doctor’s office or on behalf of one of his children, though it just as easily could have been one of the charitable foundations that phoned relentlessly when the holiday season neared. Regardless, he picked up.

A phlegmy cough answered Troy’s greeting. Then: “This is Reverend McBride. May I speak to Dr. Monica?”

“She’s out.” Troy pursed his lips, thinking. “This is her husband, Troy. Didn’t we meet at Lily’s memorial service this past weekend? I don’t forget a name.”

Another cough. “Indeed we did. Young man, it’s vital that I speak to your wife, in private. Can you please pass along my message?”

“Sure.” Troy had grabbed a pen and a Post-It notepad. “What’s this all about?”

McBride responded only by giving the phone number at which he could be reached.

“She can contact me at any hour,” McBride said.

“You really aren’t going to loop me in here?” Troy asked. “I told you, I’m her husband. If what you have to tell her is important, I have a right to know.”

“’Watch and pray that you may not enter into temptation. The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.’”

“Excuse me?” Troy said.

“Beware, young brother,” McBride said. “God bless.”

The reverend disconnected the call. Troy stared at the handset for a few heartbeats, struggling to comprehend what he’d heard.

Beware, young brother.

He had no idea what the old man was talking about.

Slowly, Troy hung up the phone, tucked the note into his pocket. The kitchen clock read a quarter past nine. His window of opportunity was gradually sliding shut.

31

Their family physician was Dr. Lamar Young. He and Troy had gone to medical school together at Meharry in Nashville. Monica liked him, professionally and personally. His children, two girls aged eight and ten, also were patients of hers.