Page 87

She nods. “One more.”

The tape spins. A burst of static, then a whiteout blur of sky. For the first few seconds, the only thing in frame is a pair of battered sneakers edging up an eroding rock face, the tread nearly gone from a thousand climbs. Casey narrates the ascent in a mock-BBC accent. “We are now approaching the subject in its natural habitat, the juvenile delinquent, genus: Harper.”

The camera swings around, catching flashes of tree canopy, the river below, then Serena herself at maybe sixteen, perched on a ledge. Her hair is up in an aggressive, too-tight bun and she’s wearing a threadbare hoodie with the sleeves cut off at the elbow. She yells, “Move your ass, Whitmore!” and the camera shakes with laughter.

At the summit, the camera lingers on the view—a sweeping shot over the river, the town spread out in miniature beneath the ridge. Casey’s breathing is heavy. She leans into the lens, grinning, and says, “For the record, you said we wouldn’t make it by sunset. You now owe me ten dollars and a peanut butter milkshake.”

Serena’s voice, younger but no less sharp, cuts in: “I agreed to ten dollars. The milkshake was never formally established.”

“Oh, bullshit!” Casey cackles, then flips the camera to record the world below. She zooms, pans left, then right.

The image warps. Casey’s laughter stretches into a garbled whine as static floods the screen.

When it clears, the mountain is gone.

It’s night.

All I can make out are streaks of light dragged across the screen as Casey moves the camera. Storefronts. Streetlamps. The yellow blink of a traffic light. Then the picture steadies against what looks like the edge of a window.

“Okay,” Casey whispers from behind the camera. “It is eleven forty-seven on Friday night, and Pastor Scofield is absolutely shit-faced.”

I sit forward.

Beside me, Serena’s knee stops bouncing.

Casey zooms toward the street.

A dark sedan sits crooked against the curb, its front tire on the edge of the sidewalk. Twenty feet behind it, blue lights pulse across the windows of the closed businesses lining Main Street. A police cruiser.

Casey adjusts the focus.

A man is standing beside the vehicle with one hand braced against the roof.

“Yep,” Casey whispers. “That is definitely him.”

“Who?” I ask.

Serena doesn’t look away from the television. “Pastor at The Living Water Fellowship. Vernard Scofield. There were always rumors. I had no idea.”

On screen, he pushes away from the car and immediately sways. The police officer catches him by the elbow before he can stumble into the street.

Casey makes a quiet, triumphant noise. “And for anyone keeping score, that is the second time this month I’ve seen him leave The Mill House like that.”

My attention snaps from the screen to Serena.

She’s staring straight ahead.

Casey keeps talking.

“The first time, Chief followed him all the way home. No ticket. No arrest. Nothing. Which everybody keeps telling me I must have misunderstood, so”—the camera shifts as she resettles herself—“here we are. Again.”

Something cold settles low in my stomach.

On screen, the officer steps into the wash of the cruiser’s headlights.

Casey zooms tighter.

The pastor is saying something. Whatever it is makes the Chief look over his shoulder, checking the empty street. Then he guides the Pastor toward the cruiser.