It’s 11:15. The doors of Athens First Baptist fly open and a pair of boys run out, tearing at their shirt collars as they circle the fluted columns and trip down the stone stairs. With them comes the scent of varnished wood and old hymnals. Somewhere behind the heavy mahogany doors, an old woman flips pale sheet music with her thumb and “Nothing but the Blood” thunders through the hall. I lean against the far railing and watch as families spill across the portico. Children bundled in peacoats clutch monogrammed Bibles and paper programs. A gust of wind sends a girl no more than five scrambling after a cut-out lamb. Traffic slows on Pulaski Street and someone lays on their horn.

I swallow the feeling I shouldn’t be here.

Teddy’s dressed for Sunday service—gray slacks and pressed white shirt. He’s even forgone his usual colorful sneakers for brown suede boots. His sisters chatter behind him—Josie must be visiting for the holidays—wind whips their scarves and hair as they lean close together, laughing.

Before I can change my mind, I slide from my post. I hardly realize his sisters have stopped talking. But when they do, Teddy turns, immediately alert, and sees me.

“Marlitt?” His voice catches between disbelief and uncertainty.

Josie, tall and athletic like her brother, gives Cassandra, a little shorter and softer around the edges, a sidelong glance.

“You weren’t answering your phone.”

His look makes it clear we both know why, but he’s unwilling to say anything in front of his sisters. I would be lying if I claimed I hadn’t counted on this.

“It’s important,” I say.

“Go on.” Josie nudges him. “We’ll see you at Mom’s.” She grins slyly at me.

Teddy gives an exasperated shrug. “Fine.” He forces a smile at Cassandra. “Just save me some, all right?”

We watch them, arms linked and heads bent together, as they disappear around the corner of Hancock Street.

“Cassandra must be happy to have Josie home,” I say.

He sighs. “What are you doing here, Marlitt?”

“Have the phone records come back?” As soon as the words leave my lips, I know it’s the wrong thing to ask. My stomach tightens as the smile pasted on Teddy’s face falters and then vanishes. But the fact that he’s here, at church, and not at the station means he doesn’t have anything yet.

I take a breath.

“I know who killed Jay,” I tell him.

I meant to save it, to give him the whole story first—the missing-student report, textbooks, matching phone number—but I have the feeling that if I don’t tell him the punchline now he’ll walk away.

He folds his arms and leans back as if to scrutinize the sky. His jaw works under his skin. Then he gives in. “How do you know?”