Page 77 of The Prodigal Son

It’s not often that people pose threats to churches, but it happens. We don’t have security at the door, so it’s not impossible that someone could waltz in here and do serious and tragic damage.

“I’ve got it, Pete. Thank you,” I mumble to the man behind me, gesturing for him to stay back.

As I approach the old man in the seat, I think about Isaac. If I do get hurt, it would devastate him. I have to keep myself safe forhim.

“Excuse me, sir. Our next service is Sunday at?—”

“At nine. I know,” he replies gruffly. I pause at the familiarity of his southern drawl. “And again at eleven.”

I take the remaining steps until I’m standing close enough to take in the man’s profile, and I nearly gasp in shock. He looks different than I remember. Gaunt, aged, tired. Nothing like the man who once stood at that pulpit.

He turns to me with a sad sort of smile on his face. “You must be my replacement,” he drawls.

My heart picks up speed, and every breath becomes weighted as I draw air into my lungs. There’s a sense of internal panic that somehow heknows.

But he can’t know about me and Isaac. No one knows.

Regardless, I can’t seem to wrap my mind around the fact that Isaac’s father is sitting in front of me. In a daze, I take the seat across the aisle from him and stare at him in shock.

“I’m Truett?—”

“I know who you are,” I stammer, cutting him off. “Truett Goode.”

His mouth lifts in the corner in an expression of faded pride.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

His smile fades. “I built this place. I stood up there for over twenty years.”

If I close my eyes, I can see him standing there. Speaking words that brought goose bumps to my skin.

“I just wanted to see it again,” he whispers sadly. I don’t respond, still too struck that he’s sitting here. So, he continues, “I loved being up there. People listened to me. They respected me. I meant something to this community.”

Truett gazes longingly up at the pulpit like it’s a long-lost lover, and I gape at him, trying to understand where it went wrong. How did a man fall so far? How do I avoid the same fate?

“You know…” he mumbles with a smirk on his mouth. “I didn’t talk until I was six years old. And I don’t know if it wasbecause I couldn’t…or because I was afraid to. People who speak up tend to be the first ones knocked down. Being quiet is safer. If nobody notices you, then nobody can hurt you.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I don’t need to pull it out to know it’s Isaac. I draw in a shaky breath as I stare at his father across the aisle.

“My daddy was a mean man, Mr. Miles,” Truett says, and my brows pinch inward in confusion. Is this a moment of senility? What is he talking about?

“He brought us to church every Sunday and beat the tar out of us every Monday. But if I was quiet, he’d skip me. Beat my brother instead.”

I swallow before glancing around to find that I’m alone with this man. He’s talking like a man on the edge, a man about to lose control. But I stay steady, keeping him calm. I’ve heard what he did to Adam’s wife. I know he’s capable of violent rage. And if he knows about me and his son…

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I murmur.

He chuckles to himself. Then he turns to me. “What do you think makes a good man, Mr. Miles?”

The fact that he knows my name without me having to tell him makes my blood run cold. I imagine him in some room somewhere, researching my name. Finding out about me and my family with some vendetta. Would he hurt me because I took the church he lost?

I swallow, and once again, I think of Isaac.

“I think being a good man has nothing to do with God or church. I think being a good man means that every night you can lay your head on that pillow and know that the world is a little better because you’re in it.”

He looks into my eyes, and I notice the hollowness in his. There’s not much left in him.

Then his mouth breaks into a smile again. “I bet you make a good fucking preacher,” he says with a laugh, and I wince before looking up at the cross hanging behind the pulpit. “But not a very good man.”

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