I came home from the funeral to tell my parents and sister that my husband had left me $8.5m and 6 Manhattan lofts. When I walked into the house, I overheard my parents talking. What they were saying… made my blood run cold.

I call James next. He’s already one step ahead.

“Reverend Harris is a straight arrow,” he says. “If I show him preliminary numbers, he’ll want the truth. Give me 24 hours.”

I drive back to Ridgewood with the windows down. The air smells like cut grass and wood smoke. My father is in that house right now, planning to steal my freedom. He’s been stealing from his church for 3 years. In 8 days, both things end.

I go for a walk the next afternoon. Fresh air, clear head. I make it half a block before Mrs. Carol intercepts me. She’s 70, white perm, church choir soprano, and Rididgewood’s most reliable conduit of gossip.

“Oh, Fay,” she clasps my hands. “Your mother told me you’ve been having such a hard time. She said you won’t eat, won’t sleep. She’s so worried about you.”

I ate a full plate of pasta last night. I slept 6 hours. Patricia watched me do both.

“I’m doing okay, Mrs. Carol. Thank you.”

“Well, if you need anything, your mother is a saint, you know, truly.”

Two blocks later, Mr. Dalton stops me outside the hardware store. Same script, different mouth.

“Pat mentioned you might need someone to check in on you. She’s been worried sick.”