As she glanced past the two silver minivans and the white Ford Expedition parked between her and the house, her father’s voice rang through her head. It was her fourth birthday. Life boils down to two choices, the Reverend Harper had told her when she’d reached to open her first brightly wrapped present. Only two, so it should be easy, the Reverend continued. Good or evil. Do you want to do the right thing, the good thing? Make our Heavenly Father smile with joy along with me and your mother? Your choice. Right or wrong. Make me proud.
Even now, twenty-four years later, she felt the weight of the silence that had followed while she fought to understand his words, her three older brothers growing restless as the candles dripped onto the birthday cake they were poised to devour. Then came her mother’s hands, squeezing Harper’s shoulders as she inched her fingers toward the small mound of enticing gifts. A squeeze that warned her that it was the wrong choice.
“You look just like them,” John, the youngest of the Reverend’s boys had said, laying his pale white forearm against Harper’s dark skin. “Mom, did Naomi come from where the Magi came from?”
“She’s not a king from the Orient,” Jacob, the eldest scoffed. “We got her from Philly. From a mom who didn’t want her.”
“Hush,” Rachel, Harper’s mother, commanded. “Naomi is our gift and we are blessed to receive her. Now, sweetie, what are you going to do with your gifts?”
Harper remembered feeling confused, torn between her desire to rip open all the bright paper and ribbons to see what lay beneath, her hope that maybe her father had taken time from his busy life of leading his flock down the path of righteousness to find the perfect gift for her, and a sinking certainty that none of these presents actually were meant for her at all.
“It’s better to give than receive,” Jonah, the middle son, whispered as if coaching her.
She glanced up, daring to meet her father’s gaze. The Reverend said nothing, his face expressionless as he waited in judgment. Would she do the righteous thing, prove his faith in her? Or would she, as she seemed to do so often without even trying, let him down? Again.
Grimly, her lips compressed to stifle her disappointment, she pushed the gifts away. The Reverend gave the tiniest nod of approval while Rachel kissed the top of Harper’s head. “Good girl. I’ll add these to the pile for the charity drive.” She whisked the gifts away while Harper blew out her birthday candles and they cut the cake, the boys talking nonstop, the Reverend reading his Bible, Rachel rushing around in the background filling glasses and serving.
Harper remembered how the cake stuck to her palate, tasteless and hard to swallow—not because Rachel wasn’t a good baker but because Harper was so certain that, despite having made the right choice, she’d never actually be truly worthy to sit at the Reverend’s table, deserving of his love.
Now sitting in a police car, August sun beating down on her, she shook her head, dismissing the childhood memory, even as she recognized that she was still struggling to win her adoptive father’s respect. But she was here now, nothing for it but to go inside—especially after Rachel had called to chide her for missing the last two Sunday family dinners.
Harper secured her service weapon in the lock box bolted to the floor of the car’s trunk. Technically, regulations required she carry it on her person while on duty, but her mother would not allow a handgun to cross her threshold. She had no problem with rifles or shotguns but because handguns could be so easily concealed, Rachel saw them as evil, a belief that none of her sons had been able to talk her out of. Harper hadn’t even tried, her newfound detente with her family too fragile to risk. She trudged to the front door, its white paint brilliant in the sunshine, creating an otherworldly glow. As if crossing the threshold required an equally flawless soul, which Harper most definitely did not possess.
“You’re late,” Rachel called by way of greeting as soon as Harper stepped inside.
Harper glanced into the dining room with its table that could seat twelve. The Reverend and his three sons, all adorned in their Sunday clerical uniforms, were already seated, waiting for the women to finish bringing the food. Sunday dinner was a well-rehearsed choreography of women in motion designed to allow the four ministers to enjoy the fruits of their labor during their busiest workday. The Reverend and his sons divided ministerial duties during the work week—over the past two decades, Holy Redeemer had grown into a massive organization requiring many hands to steer it. But Sundays were reserved for a morning of preaching, family dinner, followed by an afternoon of prayer and then evening service. Harper’s sisters-in-law would bring dishes ready to serve, take turns wrangling their various children, one of them eating with them in the kitchen so as to not disturb the Reverend with their noise, while Rachel would supervise, always hovering in the background until everyone was served and their appetites sated.
Harper took her customary seat across from the kitchen. She watched as Jacob’s wife wrapped her little girl in one of Rachel’s never-ending supply of aprons, remembering back to when it was only Harper and Rachel alone in the kitchen, exploring the mysterious world of women’s work. The way Rachel had folded the oversized apron to gather the extra material around Harper’s waist, crouching behind her to tie it tight and smooth any wrinkles. “There now, don’t you look lovely,” she’d say every time.
It’d been a long time since Harper had worn one of her mother’s aprons or been invited to join her in the kitchen. Not since Harper had left college, disgracing her family.
“Sorry I’m late. I had a case,” she told them. The
