I slowed when I reached it, as voices from inside drifted out in the hall.
“…I’m not giving you consent to do this,” Pastor Murphy said. “You want to disgrace our family because of the temptations of the flesh?”
“But, Dad, do you know how much it takes out of me to hide who I am? For your congregation’s sake?”
His son, Cameron, owned Blooming Trails flower shop. His voice was softer, harder to make out, even more so than usual.
“That’s the end of this discussion.”
I knocked—two firm raps—and the silence that followed was instant and sharp. Fabric rustled. Someone cleared their throat.
“Come in,” Pastor Murphy called.
I stepped inside. Cameron stood near the window, a cardboard box of fresh flowers in his arms, his face red. He wouldn’t look at me.
Pastor Murphy sat behind his cluttered desk, hands folded over a Bible. He still wore his collar. Still had that greasy comb-over. I used to think he was a good man.
But trust didn’t mean shit anymore.
“Matthias.” He offered a strained smile. “What a surprise. We haven’t seen you in years. What can I do for you?”
I shifted my gaze back to Cameron. “I need to talk to you in private.”
Cameron’s jaw tensed. He adjusted the box in his arms like he was trying to steady more than just the flowers. “I was just leaving anyway,” he said tightly.
Pastor Murphy gave him a look. “We’ll finish this conversation at home.”
Cameron was at least in his mid-to-late thirties. How his father could speak down to him like he was a kid didn’t sit right with me. He dipped his head and walked to the door but stopped beside me.
“You picked a hell of a day to come back,” he murmured, then glanced up at me. “Good luck.”
Our eyes met for a beat. His held something fragile. Like he was glad I’d shown up to save him from whatever that conversation had been about. Rumor was that he was gay, but no one could confirm it, since he was a loner, and his father talked about it negatively from the pulpit. The poor guy was probably still a virgin.
I turned back to the pastor. Shut the door behind me. Let the silence build just long enough for it to get uncomfortable.
“What’s troubling you today, son?” Pastor Murphy asked. “Come on, sit. You can tell me anything. If I can’t help you fix it, I can pray with you about it.”
I accepted his offer of a seat, gripping the armrests. “I’m here about Hudson Granger.”
His eyes flickered in surprise. “Hudson?”
“Yes. From my understanding, you officiated his wedding to Heather Martin.”
“Oh yes.” He rose to his feet and went over to the filing cabinet in the corner. “What about it?”
“Are they legally married?”
He stopped for a couple of seconds, then turned toward me. “I just confirmed I officiated their ceremony, son. If that’s all?—”
“No, that doesn’t answer the question.” I dug into my pocket for my phone. “It’s really simple. Is the marriage that you officiated between them legally recognized?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Doesn’t the God you supposedly work for have something against lying?” I rose to my feet, too tense to remain seated.
“Now listen here, young man. I don’t appreciate you taking that tone with me. Your mother taught you better than that.” He returned to his seat, waving his hand dismissively at me. “Of course, since she left, your father didn’t see it fit to raise you in the church, and this is what we get. Loose morals, no self-control, and no respect for elders.”
“You don’t get to say a bad word about my father.”
