“Hoch Yoder said one of you threw that lantern down the steps, which started the fire that killed those kids. The fire marshal’s investigation corroborates that.”

“We locked them in the basement, but no one threw a lantern.”

“Are you sure? Maybe one of the others did it and you didn’t notice?”

“No one threw a lantern into the basement. That’s all I got to say about that.”

There are more questions to be asked, more details to be recorded. But I need to get out of there. Away from him and the ugliness of the things he’s done. I turn off the recorder. Scooting my chair away from the table, I rise and start toward the door. But I stop and turn to him; there’s one more question that won’t leave me alone.

“You could have lied about it being your idea to take Wanetta with you. Why did you admit to that?”

“There are times when the punishment is less painful than the secret.” He pauses, stares hard at me, his eyes pleading with me to listen. “I know this isn’t going to end well for me. I know I’m going to jail for the rest of my life. But if you believe anything I’ve said, believe this: I’m not the person I was back then.”

“If you’re looking for absolution, you’re not going to get it from me,” I say coldly. “You’ll have to find another way to live with yourself.”

I turn my back on him and go through the door.

*   *   *

Glock follows me to my office. As I settle in behind my desk, he takes the chair adjacent.

“You look like you just lost your best friend,” he says.

“I lost something,” I tell him. “Another little piece of my faith in humanity, maybe.” I intended the words lightly, but that’s not the way they come out. “That son of a bitch has been preaching in this town for twenty years. Right under our noses. A rapist and murderer.”

“Not the first phony to grace the house of God. Not even the first murderer.”

“That’s the thing, Glock. He’s done so much for so many people. Why did he have to turn out to be a murdering son of a bitch?”

“Maybe he figured that by saving others, he could somehow save himself,” he says. “Do you think he’s lying about the kids? About tossing that lantern?”

“I don’t know. He just confessed to kidnapping and rape and attempted murder. Why stop there?”

He grimaces, gives me a moment to reel in my emotions, then hits me with a questioning look. “What do you know about this Ruth Weaver?”

“Not much. White female. Thirty-five years old.” I shake my head. “You guys come up with anything?”

“Nada. No records. No photo. Not even a driver’s license.”