- STEVEN -

I waited in my seat inside the sanctuary until I could tell Dad was finishing up his sermon.

He was standing behind the podium, his hand on his Bible like it always was when service was coming to an end. No walking, no wild hand gestures—just standing still and talking fervently at the crowd. I had to give him credit; he was a good speaker, albeit a predictable one.

I stole a glance left, then right, then left again. I stood as subtly as I could, sidestepping to the end of the row.

"Steven?" Ahmed's voice was a whisper. "Steven, wher're you—?"

"There's something I gotta do," was the only explanation I gave before tiptoeing along the wall, making soft strides to the sanctuary exit. I kept my eyes on Dad as I walked. His body faced the pews stationed opposite from where I'd been sitting only moments before, and he didn't step foot out from behind that podium.

When I made it outside, I stopped tiptoeing and cut straight for the kitchen—for the outreach and hospitality coordinator I just knew would be there.

"Charity," I called to her from the doorway. She was bent over the silver-plated sink and looked to be scrubbing a set of black and gray pots. She looked up the moment I spoke.

"Why hello, Steven. How are you?" She gently placed the pots in the bottom of the sink and turned off the faucet, then slid the blue rubber gloves from her hands. She walked over to me, reached out to touch my shoulder.

"Hands off," I ordered, grasping her hand inside my own and holding it firmly. "Why were you at the cemetery last night?"

Her eyes grew grave; she drew back. I loosened my grip on her hand, and she pulled it away.

"Hello!?" I yelled. "I asked you a question!"

"I was praying," she said meekly.

"At three a.m.? With a candle?" I crossed my arms. "Charity, I saw you kneel down next to a tombstone. Why? Whose grave was that?"

Her gaze fell, as did her voice. "It was no one you know."

"Try me," I pressed, taking a menacing step closer.

"Ruby," she whispered. "Ruby Densett."

I felt a chill surge up my spine. "W-what? You knew her?"

Charity nodded.

"Well, what happened? How'd she die?"

"No one knew," Charity replied wistfully. "Police found her body; it'd been left hanging on a swing set in a neighborhood park. But...what was truly horrifying was that it was only four days after they'd declared another missing girl dead."

"Who?" I felt my breath getting heavier. "Wh-who was it?"

"Her name was Lane...and I did know her."

What? "How?"

"I met her one night, long ago. She...she needed help."

I paused. "Is that why you're here?"

Her look morphed into one of deep confusion. "What? What do you mean?"

"I know you're friends with the Deputy Commissioner's wife. Are you...part of her mission? Part of this case? Is that why you came to EdgeWay?"

Charity closed her eyes, kept them shut for several moments. When they finally opened, she smiled.

"I came to EdgeWay," she began, "because God sent me. And Prudence came to EdgeWay because God sent her too. He sent us for you, Steven. And for Marcus."

"Spare me the altar call," I countered. "You said Lane needed help. What kind of help?"

"She was hiding," Charity mused. "She was barely alive—and on the run."

"From what?"

"From this church, Steven. From this town...from your father."

I felt another chill, this one creeping along my arms and down my back. "What do you mean?"

"I'd heard about Lane—so many terrible things they all said about her. A liar, an ingrate, a thief..." She shook her head, turned away from me. "When I finally had the chance to meet her, she was on the brink of death; and that's the one and only time I ever saw her."

"I don't...Charity, that doesn't make any s—"

"Excuse me," interrupted a soft, feminine voice carried on clacking heels.

Charity and I both turned. In the doorway to the kitchen stood Judith Saver, draped in a scarlet scarf and sporting matching velveted high-heels.

"Yes, Judith?" Charity replied. "What is it, dear?"

"The service is ending. I was just stopping by to make sure we didn't forget to take the cinnamon rolls out of the oven." She smiled lightly. "After-service brunch wouldn't be quite the same without Darla Portolini's special rolls."

"Right, of course," Charity smiled back, turning to walk over to the oven, whereupon sat a silvery tin of cinnamon rolls wrapped in clear saran. She picked up the tin and walked forward, curtsying before Judith. "Shall we?"

Judith grinned and hunched her left shoulder. "We shall."

The two exited the kitchen with the rolls; I assumed they were heading for the dining area.

I took a deep breath. Then another. And then I finally managed to peel my feet off the floor, step one in front of the other, and lumber my way out of the kitchen.

The fellowship hall wasn't far. It was only two doors down and past the nursery. When I arrived, three lines of people had already formed. Everyone was holding clear cups and smooth, bluely embellished plastic plates as they waited for their chance at the menagerie of bagels, flavored cream cheese, fresh omelets, scalloped potatoes, and blush-brown bacon. A pitcher of bubbling tea and a pot of coffee released tiny clouds of steam; behind them sat large mason jars of orange and apple juice.

Charity and Mrs. Saver entered through a door behind the table of hot and cold drinks, Charity carrying in the cinnamon rolls. She smiled at a lady who was filling up her cup with tea at the table.

"Thank you, Mrs. Portolini," I heard her address the woman. "Your cinnamon rolls still smell just as amazing as always."

Mrs. Portolini smiled, reached out and grasped Charity's hand. "Oh, you are so sweet," she gushed. "I've missed you." She embraced Charity in a hug. "And I told you—it's Darla."

"Well," Charity tried, "I just thought—"

"No, Charity," the woman cut in. "Twelve years is not nearly enough time for you to stop calling me Darla. Just because I'm not keeping the books at EdgeWay anymore does not mean I'm retired."

Charity laughed back. "Very well. Darla it is."

I wanted to heave. They sounded like two old maids stuck in a time warp.

I glanced right, toward the line for potatoes and omelets, and I started moving toward it. Among those swarming the table, I spotted Ahmed, cup and plate in hand as he rounded out his meal of egg and starch.

"Hey, Ahmed," I tried my best to whisper, catching his eyes between two people's bobbing heads as they scrounged for napkins and tiny packs of ketchup spread at the table's edge.

He turned to me.

"Can I talk to you for a sec?"

"What? Uh, sure. Yeah." He grabbed a napkin and two ketchups, then followed me away from the crowd.

I looked warily left to right.

"Steven, what's up?" Ahmed asked. "You seem really spooked. What's wrong?"

I kept checking my left and right. "It's...it's Charity."

"Huh? What did she—?"

"She knows about Ruby. And Lane too. She knows something, Ahmed. She was here twelve years ago." I paused, hesitating. "And that's not all. Last night, when I was driving home after we made it out of Marissa's place...I saw her. She was kneeling at a grave—she said it was Ruby's."

"Maybe she was praying? I mean, what else could she've been doing?"

I shook my head. "I don't know, but this whole thing's really suspicious to me." I looked him straight in the eyes. "I think she may've had something to do with the attack last night."

"Steven, that's crazy. She was nowhere near—"

"She was at the cemetery right after the fire! And she was the one who 'called it in,' remember? You really think she just happened to be driving by Marissa's in the middle of the night? It's not like those apartments are on the main road. If she saw the apartment burning, she must've driven all the way down Garrett Loop to get there."

"She could've spotted it from the highway..."

"Ahmed, it was a fire in one apartment; there're way too many trees to see that place from the highway. And for those firemen to get there that fast, she had to have seen the fire break out the moment it started."

Ahmed's voice hushed to a whisper. "Steven, are you seriously saying you think she's responsible for trying to burn us alive?"

I stuffed my hands in my pockets. "Dude, all I'm saying is neither one of us saw the person who broke in and set the fire. Charity probably knows way more than either of us about Ruby and Lane, and if I had to guess, I'd say she probably knows a thing or two about Shelby too."

"Oh, what, so she somehow managed to string Shelby up on a barbed wire fence before faking out the fire department and digging up a dead girl's grave?"

"Ahmed, what the heck!? You seriously don't think this is even a little suspicious? She's keeping more secrets than the freaking Chamber Pot, and she's been everywhere we've found a dead body."

"Not everywhere," he fired back. "She wasn't in the church when we found Glenn."

"You don't know that," I said evenly.

"You're right," he spat, "and I wouldn't have to even care in the first place if it wasn't for you trying to vandalize my locker that night!"

Is he serious!?

"Miss Charity has been nothing but friendly and loving ever since she came here. All she cares about is helping people who've been put down and left out. Meanwhile, you're pointing the finger at everyone but yourself and being a total prick to the nicest lady in this whole town!"

"Ahmed, will you quit being blind as a bat!?" I finally screamed. "I get that she's the only one at this school who actually likes you, but can you at least try to think rationally about this?"

The din of casual laughter and airy conversation around us suddenly slowed, devolving to a whisper. I glanced left and right; people were starting to stare.

"Ahmed, listen," I lowered my voice. "You can't trust her."

He glared at me. "You're the last person to lecture anyone about trust, Steven." He spun his back to me. "I'm outta here," he spat over his shoulder.

The noise around us began to lift again, to assume its initial clamor, as Ahmed angrily walked away.

I don't believe this. I felt like hurling something against a wall—no, I felt like hurling Charity against a wall.

I rose my eyes to the table of coffee, tea, juices, and now cinnamon rolls. Charity stood there, her hand resting next to a stack of neatly folded white napkins. She smiled at the passers-by, laughed as they made small talk, shrieked with delight as they showered her with hugs.

At a moment's pause, she looked to me, her eyes wide and bright. She raised a single finger, removed a strand of vertically streaked ebony hair from her cheek. She smiled quickly at me, and then she blew a kiss.

****

Screw Ahmed, I thought as I made it back to my house. When I'd parked and gotten out, I shoved the front door open in rage, forcing the key in the lock and twisting. I heard Dad shuffling in his office, and Mom's high heels clicked from the kitchen. I stormed to my room and slammed the door, locking myself inside.

If that dickhead won't believe me, I thought, I'll find the proof myself. I shone my phone light under my bed, spotted the floral-colored answer I was looking for.

"Charity's diary," I breathed. I checked the door to my room one last time, just to make sure it was locked, and then I returned to my bed, where I hoped to unravel the mystery. I flipped past the previous entry I'd read and kept turning pages until I found one that looked to have a promising start:

Wednesday, February 13, 1985—

I guess I should get right to it. His name is Ernest, and he's very attractive. I still can't believe he asked to take me to dinner tomorrow—and on Valentine's Day, no less! I never thought he'd even notice me, let alone ask me on a date. Oh, I can't believe this is all happening!

Prudence says I shouldn't be so uptight, but I can't help it. Ernest and Marcus are such good friends and, well...Marcus isn't my biggest fan. Prudence thinks I should just tell him to mind his own business, but it's so scary. Without a doubt, Ernest is amazing, but how happy could we really be as a couple if his friends and family don't like us together?

What travail this is! I've not even been on a single date, and already my mind throws itself into a whirlwind of fright and anxiety. How am I even going to survive tomorrow? What if Marcus comes and tries to make a mess of everything? Or what if Ernest backs out? Does he have any sisters, or would his mother disapprove of me? He couldn't have possibly ever dated a black girl before. What am I going to say if he wants nothing to do with me after our dinner? I'm afraid. I'm so very afraid.

I rolled my eyes, then flipped to the next page:

Thursday, February 14, 1985—

Oh, I had no idea it was possible to be this happy! Ernest was such delightful company, and I felt so at ease with him. I have to say that my favorite part of the night was getting to hear him laugh. Those bright green eyes, that squared jaw, those casual dark blond waves—and that beautiful, amazing smile of his...it's all so much! I can't believe this is happening to me!!

He sings in the choir too, which explains why his voice is so handsome, so melodic. It was an honestly terrible difficulty to stay focused the entire dinner. I just couldn't stop staring at him! He asked me about my life story, where I came from and what brought me here—all the generic things. But then he asked me something I've never really considered before: he asked what I wanted out of ministry and why I'm studying to be a preacher rather than something else.

Truth be told, I don't know that I've ever considered it. I told Ernest my go-to answer, that I wanted to honor God, because I couldn't think of anything else. But his question really stumped me. I know I want to honor God, and I know I want to spread His love, but I could do that in any profession. I guess I'm still not sure why I picked the ministry. But maybe it wasn't me who picked it at all—maybe it was God who picked it for me, knowing I'd meet Ernest along the way??

I'm getting ahead of myself, aren't I? Ernest hasn't even asked me out again. He said he'd like to keep seeing me, but no date's been set. I hope Marcus doesn't get to him and try to wreck everything like he did with Prudence and Jeremy. I know there's no way I'd be as strong as she was. And I know I should be happier tonight, but Marcus and his friends are just so scary. What if they're planning something, even as I write this?

I closed the journal, shuddered involuntarily. Was Charity really that terrified of my dad way back in seminary? And if she was, then why? What had he done to Prudence and Jeremy that was so awful?

I tried flipping back a few pages, but the span of days from December of 1984 to January of 1985 were undocumented. The last entry she'd made in 1984 was in November, and it was just a few quick lines about visiting Prudence's family for Thanksgiving. No mention of my dad or Jeremy Stapleman.

Still, if Charity was this freaked out, maybe something'd happened during the break. Perhaps over Christmas?

I folded the journal shut, content to leave things as they were, when I noticed something. It was so faint, so nearly indistinguishable—but I saw it.

Curled flatly in between some of the pages, a few tiny strands of blond hair protruded furtively along the journal's edge. The first thing that came to mind was a bookmark; maybe someone was trying to draw attention...but why? And who? Who did Charity know with blond hair? And who would use hair to bookmark pages in the first place?

I opened the journal again, this time turning directly to the blond locks.

Monday, October 7, 1985—

Ernest's father was officially named Chief Operating Officer at that multinational Ernest was telling me about. I just knew he was going to get it. Ernest says his dad's always been a hard worker, and it's great to see his efforts paying off.

I'm just so blessed; I feel like Ernest has been my gift from God. I spent last weekend with him and his parents, and it really did feel comfortable. His cousins, the Barks, were in town, and we all ate lunch at their family's cabin. Ernest's little cousin Shelby is the cutest thing I've ever seen. She kept talking about how happy she was to have turned six in August, just in time to start the first grade. She asked me what grade I was in; Ernest really got a kick out of that.

I know the first few Sunday lunches were a bit rocky, but I feel like I'm making meaningful headway with all his family members, and that really excites me. This is the longest relationship I've ever been in (we'll reach the half-a-year mark next Monday!), and I finally feel like his family won't be an issue. I guess now the only thing to worry about are his friends, Marcus especially.

I don't think Ernest would leave me, but I'm still scared that Marcus might try to hurt him—or hurt both of us. And I shouldn't have to feel this way, this scared, in a God-fearing institution. If I'm being honest, I'm almost to the point where I've had enough of it.

But tomorrow is a new day. I'll see Ernest first thing in the morning, and I suppose I can share all of my thoughts with him then. I just don't want to lose him. He's so special, so wonderful. I can't lose the first man to ever make me feel like I matter...like I belong.