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don’t know where.”
    â€œNo,” Cyrus said. “You don’t. But Kate Harper couldn’t have done it. I saw what had happened, and it would have taken a lot of strength. Kate is a small woman—and not strong.”
    â€œOzaire said either she did it herself, or she could have paid someone else to do it.”
    Patience, already stretched thin, snapped for Cyrus. This enraged him. A crazy man, someone very powerful, had driven the knife through Jim’s neck and left a hole in the pew where the blade had been hacked downward with such force.
    â€œFather?” Lil said tentatively.
    He looked through the windows toward the white church. Official vehicles clogged the driveway normally used only for funeral cars or utility vehicles. The ends of the yellow crime-scene tape that stretched across the entrances to the church, fluttered like ribbons. The day was becoming cloudless—perfect, even if there was thick moisture in the air—yet a sickening and heavy pall dulled the scene before his eyes.
    â€œDon’t you worry, Father.” Lil’s hand on his arm surprised him. “The truth will come out. The good Lord will help us get through.” She sighed. “Poor Jim Zachary. Just yesterday I talked to him.”
    â€œThis is difficult for all of us,” Cyrus said. “Take some time off today if you need to, Lil. But don’t get drawn intoany speculation about Kate Harper. I thought she was a friend of yours.”
    â€œShe is.” Repeated sniffs made Cyrus feel very sorry for Lil. “Ozaire said it was—”
    â€œIt’s all right,” he said, rubbing her left arm. “We’ve all got to do anything we can to make sure the murderer is brought to justice. We won’t help if we point fingers and confuse everything.”
    â€œYes, Father,” she said.
    Cyrus smiled at her, but felt uneasy. He’d hear more of Ozaire’s theory about Kate Harper.
    He continued through the kitchen and into the corridor. The dark wainscot that reached halfway up the walls was as old as the house, and it shone from regular polishing.
    Cyrus loved this rectory.
    But he detested the confused, angry, vengeful thoughts that gripped his mind like the rapid run of waves on the shore. The moment he thought they had gone away, back they rushed to swamp him again.
    There was no peace left for him in Toussaint, and his difficulties only increased. He couldn’t quit when the need for him here was so great, but he had been tempted to ask for reassignment.
    If he did that, what would he gain? The only answer that came to him was, regret.
    Halfway along the corridor, he heard voices. A man and Madge. Cyrus paused. He crossed his arms and looked at his shoes.
    Nothing they said was clear. He was grateful for that. How had he sunk to listening to his assistant’s conversations—or trying to? Cyrus knew the answer. Madge had given him too many good years of her life, and recently, when he’d been deeply shaken by the strength of theirfriendship, he had pushed her to start dating. Now, each time he saw her with a man, even a man who was a stranger, he could barely restrain himself from whisking her away.
    He leaned against the wall and tipped his face up to the ceiling. Tears? Tears stung his eyes as if he was some moonstruck kid who didn’t get the girl. When had he started allowing himself to question his calling?
    No, he didn’t question that, but he would be a liar if he didn’t admit that he was a man with two passions, each of which deserved all of him: the Church, and Madge Pollard.
    A door opened and a man said, “I don’t want you getting upset, Madge. I’ll take you back to Rosebank tonight, and we’ll have dinner. This is all too much for you.”
    Cyrus shrugged away from the wall. His throat felt closed and he heard the pounding of his blood in his ears. Forcing himself to move, he carried on toward his