CHAPTER 46
I have a sense of déjà vu as I call in sick to work and walk to the car rental agency, but this time I ask for a full-size SUV. As I’m turning over my fraudulent driver’s license to the clerk, Steven texts me.
What the hell did we drink last night? I don’t even remember going to bed.
Tequila and lots of it.
Are you sick?
Yeah. So sick. In fact, I gotta go.
He responds with a frowny face. Yuck.
My Steven is a regular Florence Nightingale.
I drive my rental all the way out to Apple Valley this time. The church is quiet, though I can hear people in their offices working down the hall. Pastor Hepsworth’s secretary isn’t at her desk, so I knock on his closed office door.
“Yes?” he calls.
I open it a few inches and stick my head in.
“Jane?” he sits up straighter. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to apologize,” I say.
He cocks his head, puzzled. “Apologize for what, my dear?”
“For lying to you yesterday.”
“About what?”
“I don’t want you to be angry . . .” I drop my head in shame.
“I promise I won’t be angry. I’m here to help you in any way I can.”
I swallow hard and raise my gaze to meet his. “You were right, sir. I . . . I did text you this weekend.”
His gray eyebrows fly high. “The picture. It was you.”
“Yes. It was me. I was . . . I was just scared to admit it to you, Pastor Hepsworth. I’m sorry.”
“My word, Jane.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I sent it! You’re just such a great man, and I wanted . . . I wanted . . .” I break off and take a shuddering breath. “Can you forgive me for what I’ve done?”
He tilts his head a little, looking past me toward his secretary’s desk. It’s still empty. “Maybe you’d better come inside, my dear,” he says, his voice deepening. “I think we need to have a talk.”
“Yes, sir.” I hit a button on my phone; then I slip into his office and close the door behind me.
CHAPTER 47
I’ve taken my time and really thought this out. I think audio is the way to go. Hidden video is just a little too menacing for the public to deal with. They might feel a twinge of sympathy for the subjects, and I don’t want even a hint of softness to mar this day.
Also, it’s really best if there’s a buildup. Everybody likes a slow reveal. So I’m forcing myself to have patience and plan this out minute by minute. It’s not easy.
On Friday I don’t bother calling in sick to work. I’ll never return there again. I spend the day packing up the few personal belongings from my apartment and loading them into the SUV. I close my cat into her carrier and I put her in the rental too; then I drive to the InterContinental Hotel in St. Paul and check into a suite. It has a great bathtub.
No cats are allowed in the hotel, of course, but I leave the maid a fifty every morning so she doesn’t see anything, not even the litter box.
On Saturday I carefully set up a new email account through a relay server and enter all of the contacts I stole from Steven’s phone. His siblings are in there, of course, and I assume a lot of his church members are too. I recognize two of the names as fellow deacons. I add some of his friends from work and all of his bosses.
I order room service. I sip champagne in the bathtub. I watch boats passing by on the river. What a relaxing day.
On Sunday I get up early and head to church. I’m not wearing a flowery dress today. Instead I wear jeans and a tight sweater. I put my hair up and slide on dark glasses. I stay in my car as people file into the building.
At 8:55 my email alert dings. Sunday service hasn’t quite started yet, but Steven will be in place at the front of the hall with the other deacons. He won’t be checking email or texts. He’s busy setting a good example.
I open the email titled “Hepsworth Family Values Part One” and click on the attached audio file to listen to Steven telling me to pose for him, to touch myself, to get on my knees.
It’s not that scandalous, really. I mean, it’s pornographic, but mostly harmless. Nothing the other men inside the church wouldn’t do, given half a chance.
And there’s no video of Steven, no picture or visual evidence, so at most this file is something to titter over and discuss. I say his name several times in the recording, but he can deny it’s him and a lot of people will give him the benefit of the doubt. That’s fine.
Behind my vehicle, a man and his wife are hurrying across the parking lot when she stops dead in her tracks with her phone to her ear. She gapes openmouthed for a moment, then snaps the phone away from her ear. “Brent!” I hear her yell, but her husband is already at the church door, holding it open and waving her in.
Music rises up inside. The door closes as the woman rushes in, her hands waving as she tries to explain the email to her husband. Even with the doors closed, the muffled sound of the choir beginning to sing leaks past the glass. I get out of the SUV and stroll across the parking lot.
The vestibule is nearly deserted by the time I enter. A woman is on her feet, rocking a fussy baby in her arms. A little girl comes out of the bathroom and heads for the doors to the hall. Just as she’s going inside a man stalks out of the doors, his phone to his ear, face stunned. A few seconds later another guy follows.
“What the hell is this?” he hisses.
Sliding my sunglasses off, I peek through the slowly closing door to the great hall. Most of the parishioners are singing along with the choir, but here and there I see pockets of people whispering. It’s not enough of a disruption to stop the service, but it’s enough to start a vibration of conversation.
I creep closer and prop open a door with my foot. Steven is oblivious at the front, his face raised toward his father, who stands at his lectern listening blissfully to the glorious music behind him.
Steven sings along. His world is still intact. He can’t see the cracks working through the foundation beneath him. I watch the scene for a little while. The people closest to the front are the most pious and obedient and none of them know yet, but the back rows are aflutter.
My email dings again. I hear the buzz of one of the other phones in the vestibule. I can’t stop the chuckle that rises in my throat.
The Hepsworth Family Values Part Two file is a little more scandalous. In fact, it’s downright disgraceful. Steven sounds so arrogant, so drunkenly pleased with himself as he tells the story of his sordid affair with his stepmom, the pastor’s wife, the matron of this faithful, pious community. Oh, Steven. How could you? How could you betray your father this way?
I cut out his tearful regret at the end, of course. He can express that on his own if he wants to. And he will want to, I’m sure.
An actual screech gurgles up from the crowd. Several people stand up. I back away from the doors and let them shut, but they soon swing open again. The choir is still singing, but most of the congregation has realized that something terrible is happening. Some have phones pressed to their ears, but most are huddled in groups in the pews, communicating in frantic gestures and rumbles of words over the music.
The doors stay open almost continuously now as people trickle out. The choir begins a new song, but the sound is weakening as the people in the choir begin craning their necks at the jumbled audience.
I spy Steven standing at the front of the room, turning in a slow circle, totally confused by the uproar. Pastor Hepsworth looks mildly concerned and moderately puzzled, but he still has no idea what’s coming.
As more people surge into the vestibule, the roar becomes deafening. Just before I turn to walk out, there’s a break in the crowd and I see Steven approaching his father at the lectern, his brows drawn down in concern. In that sweet moment his gaze touches mine. His eyes widen. I smile at him.