“Okay,” he said, and there was something in his acquiescence that led her to believe he was starting to become as wary of the room as she was. He hugged her. “But it’s nice to have our own house, isn’t it? Instead of an apartment? It’s good to have our own place.”

“Yes,” she said, and thought of that Twilight Zone episode about the boy who sent people into the cornfield. “It’s good.”

Eight

EIGHT

1

On Friday night, he lost it all.

And more.

Walter sat alone in the office, his entire body covered with a thin sheen of sweat, though the night was cool, as was the temperature inside the church. He stared at the betting site, realizing that not only were his winnings gone, and his initial stake, but he had foolishly and inexplicably wagered additional money—church money!—in a sure thing that had turned out to be not sure at all.

Now what was he going to do?

The same base impulse that compelled him to gamble was urging him to disappear, to take off under cover of darkness and never show his face in this town again, while the higher nature that had led to his life in the church was telling him to do the right thing, turn himself in and face the consequences of his deeds. Walter didn’t know which course of action to take, and while in days past he might have prayed to God for guidance, he was afraid this time that he had fallen too far, and he sat there dejected and bewildered, frightened and despairing.

The lights in the church flickered, though the screen before him remained unaffected, and he glanced up, frowning.

The lights flickered again, and a shadowed form appeared in the doorway.

The person must have walked up during that fluttering second of darkness, but the timing of the effect made it seem as though he’d simply appeared.

“May I help you?” The pastor stood. His pulse was racing, an involuntary reaction to the individual’s sudden appearance, but he was still a minister—for the moment—and still in God’s House, and if this was a lost soul seeking guidance, it was his duty to provide what aid and comfort he could.

“May I help you?” The figure stepped forward, into the room. It was a man, a cleancut pleasant-looking man dressed formally in a dark blue suit. “My name’s Pickering,” he said. “Julius Pickering. I’m with The First People’s Bank.”

“Yes? May I help you?” Walter repeated.

“May I help you?” the man said again. “I understand that you’ve found yourself in some precarious financial straits.”

Walter’s face felt hot. “No,” he said, keeping his voice neutral.