It was like a movie. A fantasy, or maybe one of the old romantic comedies Jenny Scarsdale loved to watch on the classics channel. Jenny was back in Hall City with her grandmother, a terrifying leather-voiced woman smoking endless packets of Virginia Slims and displaying an absolute refusal to watch any film made past 1965. Auntie Scarsdale, as everyone called her, was one of Bea’s favorites in the congregation, because her donations were regular as clockwork. Zoe couldn’t even hold it against the old lady.
Auntie was just lonely, like everyone else.
Jenny had a fetching overbite, a raucous laugh when her grandmama couldn’t hear, and she had agreed with Zoe that Pastor Bea was an oily jackass. She might even have been a friend if Zoe had been able to trust anyone at all, but the night of
