After the service, I stood alone beside the hearse while mourners filed past without meeting my eyes. Quick footsteps clicked behind me. It was Gloria Finch, her mascara streaked, twisting that lace handkerchief in both hands. “Janet, please, I never wanted to hurt you,” she said. “Three weeks ago, Ruth called me and offered twelve thousand dollars to sit in that front pew.”

Before I could answer, Mr. Whitfield hurried over holding a small brass key. “Thomas left this with me too,” he said. “It opens something inside his Bible.” Across the lot, Ruth stood gripping that very Bible, her face rigid. She had heard every word. She began walking toward us, and from her black purse she pulled out a folded paper stamped with a county seal, her eyes burning.