“Seventeen and a sinner!” Pastor Minstrel didn’t need the microphone. The speakers hummed with the effort of filtering his voice. “What kind of lesson is that for our children—to see one so young follow Satan into the sins of the flesh?”

The crowd mumbled assent and raised their hands as if their palms cupped the air below the low ceiling, as if together they held it aloft.

Miranda flinched as moisture landed on her face and thought maybe the pastor had flung sweat at her, wondered if that made it holy water. Wondered if her skin would start to hiss.

She tried to swallow the hitch in her throat and bit her lip to still its tremble. It seemed the entire county had turned out to shame her. Even people she’d never seen inside the church were lifting up their hands and convulsing with the Holy Spirit.

“Repent!” Pastor Minstrel’s red face had fogged his glasses. He pulled them off and licked the lenses clear. “Bring Jesus back into your heart.” He stomped toward her as the crowd roared.

Miranda’s hands rose to cover her belly. There was a gentle flutter under her fingertips, a deep stirring in her core that grew more frantic the louder the crowd screamed. As if the little thing inside felt the Spirit, too—as if it knew what she had tried to do. But I didn’t. Don’t accuse me. Her breath caught on the lump in her throat.

“Do you know what I found this morning?” Pastor Minstrel turned from the crowd to face Miranda. The congregation went silent. His heavy breaths rushed over the microphone, amplified through the room. Hair stuck to his damp forehead, and Miranda focused on the line where the yellow faded into grey at the roots. His suit smelled like wet wool and cologne.

Miranda shook her head.

Pastor Minstrel stomped across the stage to the altar. His footfalls caused the carpeted risers to sway. Miranda felt nauseated.

He ripped a gold-sequined cloth from over a small mound resting there.

The congregation gasped. Women shrieked, and a hundred hands raised to painted mouths. Pastor Minstrel struggled with the smile dancing in the corner of his mouth. He turned to Miranda till it was tamed into a stern frown. He spun back to the crowd.

“Mr. Allen’s lost lamb. Or what’s left of it. Coyotes chewed it raw and left its remains right here on the steps of this very church. A lamb! Slain! Just as your spirit has been slain by the devil!”

Miranda glanced up at the crowd and saw Jake’s face—handsome, pale, but almost as sweaty as the pastor’s. Dripping and terrifying, like that night in the hayloft.

Well, he knows now. Not my lonely secret anymore. She felt the baby stir against her hand. Ready to meet your daddy?

***