Chapter 6: The Pastor Makes His Move
Three days later, Pastor Michael called my mother.
I found out when she rang me that evening, her voice tight in a way I hadn't heard since the week Grandma d*ed.
"He came to the house," she said.
I sat down.
"What?"
"This afternoon.
I didn't know who he was at first — I haven't been to that church in years.
He introduced himself and said he wanted to talk about Ruth's estate and some confusion over a donation." She paused.
"He was very calm.
Very polite.
He said you'd been under enormous stress since the funeral and that grief sometimes makes people see things that aren't there."
My jaw tightened.
"He said that to you."
"He said he was concerned about you.
He said if there were any misunderstandings about the jewelry, he and Susan were willing to return it quietly — no need to involve anyone else — and that he hoped the family could heal." Her voice dropped.
"He brought flowers, sweetheart.
For Ruth.
He stood in my hallway holding flowers for my mother and talked about your mental state."
I closed my eyes for a moment.
"Mom.
Listen to me.
I need you to not agree to anything he said."
"I didn't.
I told him I'd speak to you." A beat.
"But he frightened me a little.
He's very—"
"Practiced," I said.
"He's very practiced."
I called Dot's nephew that same night.
His name was Graham, and he had the calm, unhurried manner of someone who had heard many urgent phone calls and knew how to make the person on the other end feel less like they were falling.
"Going to your mother is a pressure tactic," he said.
"He's trying to isolate you and frame this as a family grief matter rather than a financial one.
It's not uncommon."
"Can he do anything to actually stop us?"
"Not if the documentation is what Dot described." I heard him turn a page.
"The ledger alone might not be sufficient, but combined with the auction records, the Facebook post, the physical jewelry, and Dot's auxiliary records — that's a pattern.
That's not one grieving woman misremembering.
That's corroborated evidence across multiple sources and multiple years."
"He mentioned the diocese."
"So did I, to Dot.
I've already drafted a preliminary letter.
I wanted to speak with you before sending it." He paused.
"I should tell you — once we contact the diocese, this moves out of your hands to some degree.
They'll conduct their own inquiry.
It may take time.
It may be uncomfortable."
"I know."
"And Pastor Michael will almost certainly know it was you who initiated it."
"He already knows," I said.
"He went to my mother's house.
He's not trying to hide that he knows."
Graham was quiet for a moment.
"Then we send the letter," he said.
The letter went out the following morning.
What I didn't know — what none of us knew yet — was that we weren't the first.
Graham called me four days after sending the letter.
His voice had shifted slightly.
Still calm, but with something underneath it.
"The diocese came back faster than I expected," he said.
"It turns out your complaint wasn't the first inquiry they'd received about Pastor Michael's parish."
I stood very still in my kitchen.
"How many?" I said.
"At least two prior complaints," Graham said.
"Both from former congregation members.
Both citing financial irregularities.
Both quietly set aside." He paused.
"They weren't set aside this time."
May you like
"Why not?"
"Because this time," he said, "someone sent them the photograph."
