Virgil was raised Baptist. Sophie Harkryder was a devout churchgoer even now that she was in her eighties, and when her children were little she'd insisted they scrub up and get dressed for services every Sunday whether they liked it or not. His mother yelling up the stairs, "Anyone who isn't down here in five minutes is gonna get left!" was a profound memory of childhood.

The war had changed his views on religion, and after he returned home from Vietnam he dabbled in other faiths and explored their belief systems. Looking for something to make the world make sense again. With therapy and the help of friends and family, he'd gradually re-discovered his balance in life. Church was part of that.

Besides, he liked the hymns.

The funeral was for Dean Cayhall, who'd operated a gas station near the gym. He and Virgil had known one another casually, talking over the occasional beer after work and getting together with other people for basketball on weekends. They'd been roughly the same age, so the death had left the veteran a bit shaken and wanting to pay his respects. A heart attack, for the Lord's sake.

The family had filled the first two pews, Dean's wife and three kids lined up like ducks on the unpadded bench. The minister had clearly known the deceased well, and he'd spoken warmly to the bereaved. As the people attending the gathering rose to their feet when the service ended, Virgil adjusted his coat on his broad shoulders and went to speak to Rachel and her children.

He was relieved to be out in the open air once people began to disperse, and he rubbed the back of his neck. An elderly couple were shuffling ahead of him, and he waited patiently while they navigated their way down the stairs. There was a blonde sitting nearby and puffing on a cigarette. Friend? Family member?

"Evenin'," Virgil said. "I guessed I missed giving you my condolences."