A moment later, noise arose from within: a door thudding, footsteps crossing the sanctuary, stumbling, a groan of wood against wood followed by muttered curses. Until finally the locks and latches were drawn.

The heavy door came open and Reverend Atkins stood behind it, holding it in both hands like a large shield. He was bleary-eyed, reeking of whiskey. His sparse, snow-white hair hung in his face.

"Yes? It's a tad late for confession, if that's why you've come."

"We were hoping you could give us sanctuary for the night," Sheila said.

The old man blinked dazedly. His drunken gaze found Sheila and he gave her a tight smile, polite but far from friendly. "Sanctuary? My child, whatever would compel you to inquire of such an antiquated custom?"

"I'm Ruby Savage's son. Martin Savage."

The holy man's eyes bugged out momentarily. He covered poorly with a cough. "Why yes, of course. I do seem to recall the two of you sitting beside la grande dame during my service for that poor dear girl." He tutted. "Such a terrible tragedy. But why on earth would you require sanctuary?"

"We have no place else to go, Reverend," Sheila said. "Dr. Mulligan said we could trust you."

"He did, did he?"

"That's right," Martin said, although the doctor didn't seem to think very highly of the reverend at all. "He told us everything."

The reverend nodded with a heavy sigh, as if he'd always expected this time might come. He stepped aside and ushered them in.

"Well then, come in quickly," he said, peering out into the darkened street. "Before you let the dickens in with you."

"My parish isn't quite what it once was," Reverend Atkins admitted, groaning as he took a seat behind the desk. "There was a time when people turned to scripture for comfort. Now they turn on reality television."

The office smelled of wood polish, cheap cologne, sandalwood and the opened whiskey bottle. Photos covered the walls of the reverend, much younger, smiling in the midst of a children's choir, shaking hands with President Clinton and Bush Jr. Another with Mother Teresa, which appeared to be from missionary work in India, judging by the people surrounding them. In another he was crouched next to a dead buck alongside Dr. Mulligan and a third man with a dark mustache and bushy eyebrows. The three men were apparently good friends.

Reverend Atkins poured a round of whiskey in three mismatched coffee mugs. Sheila sipped from hers—the caption read It's What's On the Inside that Counts: Coffee—and the strong liquor warmed her from the inside out. Martin drank his in a gulp and set his World's Greatest Dad mug down on the reverend's desk.

"Dr. Mulligan said you might know something about my mother."

Reverend Atkins gave him a condescending smile. "My child, everyone in Barrows Bay knows about Ruby Savage."

"I meant my birth mother. I think he said her name was Rosalee?"