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“Watch your mouth,” Sister Andrews says. “You’re a homewrecker, Darren Matthews. You’re a slut and a snake, and we see you. We all see you.” She flings her finger right at him. “Sinner!”

Darren smiles and takes a step forward. “Do you want to talk about sin, Imogene? Do you?” He cocks his head to the side. I’ve never seen him like this. So sure of himself. So commanding. So . . . sexy. “Because I will burn this church to the ground, and I will salt the fucking earth with your deepest, darkest sins.” Terrifyingly, Darren’s entire expression changes, and he lifts his hand, snapping three times. “Meadows?”

Meadows stands and walks toward us carrying the duffel bag Pet was holding earlier in one hand, and his manilla envelope in the other. With the hand holding his folder, Meadows tips an imaginary hat at Imogene Andrews. “Top of the morning to you. If I were you, I’d watch my mouth.” He leans in, whispering something we can’t hear into her ear, both their eyes darting toward the folder.

Sister Andrews eyes bulge, and she sucks a sharp breath. “You wouldn’t,” she whispers. “You couldn’t. How do you even know that?”

Meadows reaches up and squeezes Darren’s shoulder. “I’ve got the best private eye in the not-so-great state of Texas,” he says proudly.

Darren nods. “And I’ve been preparing for this case all my life.” He points at the folder. “Do you want to tell them, or should I?”

Her jaw hangs open, and she slowly shakes her head. “Please.” As she gapes at him in horror, Darren pulls out a photograph of . . .

“Is that a voting booth?” I ask, because what the heck does that have to do with anything?

Darren leans closer to her. “He may have stolen the election, but she stole our hearts.” Pointing at the photograph, I notice what must be the top of Sister Andrews’ head. Her finger is pressing down on the button for . . .

“I don’t think you’ll be welcome here either if they find out you’re an undercover liberal,” Darren says.

“I am a proud Christian woman,” she barks. “How dare you insinuate—”

Darren shoves another ridiculous photograph in her hands. I don’t know how or why he would have it. In the picture, taken from outside her bedroom window, Sister Andrews is sitting in her rocking chair, knitting a blanket. There were words. Treacherous words. Diabolical words.

“We are not going back,” the blanket says, and there’s even a poorly knitted likeness to our almost-Madam President.

Sister Andrews narrows her eyes, and she huffs. “Be that as it may, I still don’t support sodomy.”

“And I don’t support ankle-length skirts being worn by anyone, anywhere, at any time.” He stares down at her khaki skirt like it’s the most offensive thing he’s ever seen. “Particularly in khaki.”

“What do you want?” she snaps, trying to keep her voice quiet. Luckily, there aren’t any other eyes on us, because Tatum, who I’m beginning to believe is an unhinged exhibitionist, is sitting back in his pew, FaceTiming his husband, stroking himself for all to see. Around him, men and women lick their lips, entranced. “Is this blackmail? Is it money you want?”

He shakes his head. “I want the house. I want Miles to keep his house.”

“That isn’t up to me. It isn’t mine to give. It belongs to the church.”

“And the church is going to sign it over.”

“Even if I voted in favor, there are still over twenty more members, none of whom support bastardly buggering.”

“Bastardly buggering?” I ask, because what the heck is that?

She nods. “I said what I said, son, and I’ll say it again. They’re not going to agree to this.”

“We’ll see,” Darren says, smiling a lot more cheerfully than the situation calls for. He turns and skips back to the platform, hopping up with ease. Ah, the wonders of a youthful body. He trots to my lectern like a show pony, grabbing the microphone and switching it on. “Excuse me?” When no one pays him the slightest hint of attention, my boy comes alive, lifting his leg and stomping it, making the whole platform creak. “I said, excuse me!” That does the trick. Within seconds, every eye is on him. He lifts his file folder over his head and shakes it furiously. “I remember when I was little, everyone in this room filled my head with stories about Armageddon being nigh.” A wicked smile spreads across his face. “It’s here.”

“Dare?” I ask, but he shakes his head, not even looking at me. He’s got his eyes spanning the room, glaring at everyone except his chosen family.

“Brother Thomas,” Darren says, setting the file folder on my lectern. He places the microphone in its stand and pulls out a sheet of paper. “I remember after I came home, you told my father I was a deviant who deserved to be cast out. Those were your words, were they not?”

Okay, he kind of sounds like a hot-shot lawyer, and I can’t lie; it’s doing things to me, but there’s also a deep, bitter rage burning in the pit of my stomach, roaring to life like a charcoal grill. I’ll grill Brother Thomas’ dang face until it’s charred if he ever says anything like that to Darren again. Why didn’t Dare tell me in the first place? I would have kicked him out of our church in a heartbeat.

Brother Thomas looks away nervously. “Yes. It’s in the Good Book, son. God will not be mocked.”

“That shitty excuse for a toupee is mocking him enough for the both of us. I mean, my God, man. Have you no shame?”

“Don’t listen to him, Stanley,” Sister Thomas says, kissing his cheek. “I think it looks real natural.”

“Yes,” Darren says, “Well, you also think sexual swinging is natural.” He lifts a piece of paper with a nude image of Brother and Sister Thomas. It looks like a selfie taken in their bedroom. “I mean, maybe it is—I’m not one to kink shame—but per your little book, adultery is a sin too. That didn’t stop your sinful asses from posting swinger ads on Reddit of all places, seeking thirds and fourths. You better watch the windows of your glass house tonight, lest I throw a goddamn brick through each and every one.” He points at the pew behind them. “Done with you. Sit.” He turns and points at Sister Fergeson. “Your turn.”

Sister Fergeson’s entire face goes white. A miraculous feat for a person so tan, their skin looks like rough leather. God works in mysterious ways. “Y-yes, Darren?” she asks meekly.

He feigns a kind smile. “I remember when you used to babysit me on the weekends when I was a kid. We used to have such a fun time, didn’t we?”

She breathes a sigh of relief, forcing a smile, attempting to reminisce by stating, “I used to push you in my tire swing out front.”

He nods. “You also used to push crystal methamphetamine from your living room. By the looks of it, you still do.” He lifts a photograph of what I can only assume is bags and bags of speed in a large suitcase at the bottom of her closet.

“I didn’t! I wouldn’t!”

“Thou shalt not lie,” Darren hisses. “I’ve got video footage of you selling five bags to Sister Walsh.” He glares at Sister Walsh next. Before pointing at their pew. “You can both have a seat. Done with you too.”

For the next ten minutes, he reads from his dossier of dirty-doings, laying the entire congregation’s most secret shames bare for all to witness. It’s the most glorious altar call I’ve ever witnessed. God. He was born for this. To steal the show. To sparkle like diamonds in the sun. By the end, revelations of theft, drug use, sexual proclivities, and even murder play out like an episode of Matlock, and I’m left in awe of my sweet, precious boy.

When it’s just the three of us left standing, Sister Anders is pleading with her eyes, but Darren isn’t having it. He pulls out a piece of paper and holds it up. The moment I see her face, it feels like I’ve been sucker-punched. I haven’t seen that face in almost twenty years. Why does he have a picture of her ?

“Jeanie Marsh,” Dare says, and if looks could kill, Sister Andrews would be at the gates of Hell as we speak. “She was your friend. I remember. You two used to sit side by side at service.”

Sister Andrews swallows, looking confused, but more than a little frightened. “She was a cherished friend. I miss her dearly.”

“She can rot in fucking hell,” Darren spits back. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a small, leatherbound journal. While he’s flipping pages, I’m left reeling, because the vitriol spilling out of his mouth—in a house of God, no less—is uncharacteristic, even for him. He finds the page he’s looking for, and our eyes meet. The look he gives me is the most sympathetic expression I’ve ever seen, and my stomach drops. There’s not a doubt in my mind. He knows it was her . He knows it was Sister Marsh. “April Third.”

My heart sinks.

“How did you get that?” she asks, her voice shaking.

“I love a good snoop. Especially in attics. People hide the strangest things up there, don’t they? Old clothes. Forgotten tchotchkes. Planning an assault on a minor with your pastor and the demon you called a best friend.” He lifts the book, but he doesn’t read the pages. Thank God. Whatever’s in her journal would probably send me into catatonia. I can barely breathe as it is. “April Third. That’s the day you destroyed a man’s life. You are a monster, and as God is my fucking witness, I’m coming for you.”

She swallows, her breath coming out in these quick little bursts. “It wasn’t an assault. They were leading him—”

“Don’t. Don’t even think of justifying your actions. Sit your ass down. I’m done with you again.” As she scurries back to her usual seat, I’m the only one left standing. He’s standing over me, staring down like he’s God, and I’m his precious child. I don’t have a reason for it, but I kneel before him, the way he usually kneels for me during our altar calls. He always looks so relieved when I tell him to go forth and sin no more. Maybe I’m hoping by kneeling for him, I can find some of that relief too.

“God sees your tears, Miles Brooks,” he says, his voice comforting. “And he walks with you.”

They’re words I’ve said thousands of times. Often to him. Saying them has always made me feel closer to God, like I’m His right-hand man. Hearing them makes me feel safe. Cared for. Maybe even treasured. I look up at the man I love with awestruck eyes, because with the way the light is beaming through the stained-glass window, silhouetting around him, he almost looks like Jesus. Fractals of reds and blues and exquisite whites sparkle around him. A miracle come to life.

It feels like I’ve been reborn.

“Darren,” I breathe as the weight of the world is lifted from my shoulders.

“They don’t get to win. Not this time. Not in this story.” He looks across the chapel, lifting the file folder and shaking it furiously. “This is only the tip of the iceberg. The things I have on you would make your stomach churn. The good news is, I’m not a hateful man. You guys won’t be either, by the time I’m done with you.” He points at Meadows. “You all know Brother Meadows. The thing is, he’s more of a brother in arms than a brother in Christ.”

Meadows pulls out a long, wooden tube and aims it at Sister Andrews. Wrapping his lips around the end of the tube, he blows, and a dart soars across the room, piercing her throat. Her eyes go wide, and she reaches up, touching the dart.

“What was that?” she asks, eyes wide as the moon.

Meadows places the DIY dart gun in his pocket and smiles at Sister Andrews. “Just a mild tranquilizer.” He waves kindly at her. “Enjoy your nap.” Moments later, her head slumps to the side, eyes closed. The rest of the church looks horrified, save for Darren’s strange friend group.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he tells the church. “Miles isn’t going anywhere, and neither am I. Starting today, church will last two additional hours.” There are groans from the crowd, but Darren shakes the file folder for all he’s worth. “Absolutely not. No backtalk. Going forward, this church, much like not-my-President Flump’s America, is a dictatorship.” The creature inside the large body bag Meadows dragged in earlier squirms and wriggles around frantically, but Meadows just loads his dart gun and fires a round into the bag.

“Shut the fuck up. The church’s First Lady is speaking.”

“First Gentleman,” Darren corrects. “I think Mal should still be First Lady. She’s earned it.”

“Damn straight,” she agrees.

Darren shakes his head. “Damn gay. Regardless, we’re a package deal, and we’re going to lead these hillbillies into the light.” He folds his arms in front of him, leaning against the lectern. “One thing I hated about my ridiculous conversion therapy journey was the proudly condescending smiles you all gave me at church, telling me the Lord’s will was being done. We’ve had enough of His will. It’s time for mine.” Gosh. Okay, well that’s just straight-up blasphemy. “I’m going to educate you all. Every service, I’m going to do a little conversion therapy of my own. By the time I’m done, you’ll all be card-carrying liberals.” Every eye shoots wide open, and their heads shake back and forth.

Meadows fires another dart into the crowd, this time taking out Brother Bishop. As he falls asleep in his pew, his body slumping and crumpling on the floor, Dare’s eyes meet mine and he gives me a smile that shakes me to my core.

“I think we’ll start tomorrow. How does drag queen story hour sound?” He turns and winks at me, and I know everything is going to be okay.

Meadows stands and smiles. “You want me to get the bonfire ready?”

Darren nods. “There’s gas by the bonfire Scotty and Tatum built earlier.”

Scotty lifts his finger, displaying a fresh Band-Aid. “I got a splinter, Meadows. Daddy’s gonna kill you dead.”

Meadows shrugs. “Probably.” He kicks the flailing bag, and a muffled cry comes from beneath the cloth. “Come on, douchebag.” Grabbing the side of the bag, he drags the hefty man inside toward the rear entrance leading out into the rarely used playground out back.

I look up at Dare, my eyes bulging. “Please tell me that’s not a person . . .”

“Okay.” Darren nods. “I won’t.”

“Do I know this person?”

Darren shrugs. “A lot of people know him. A lot of people hate him. That’s all there is to be said on the matter. I refuse to end up in an El Salvadorian concentration camp.”

I give him a shrug. “I don’t understand what the heck that means.”

He playfully taps the tip of my nose. “I know. And that’s what I love about you. Now, be a lamb and take a seat beside Mal. I’m going to give my first sermon. I don’t have anything planned, so I’ll probably look like a fool, but who cares? This is hardly the Academy Awards.” He arches an eyebrow and glares at Sister Andrews sleeping face. “Though she seems hellbent on giving Meryl Streep a run for her money today. Can we excommunicate her?” His eyes widen and he turns to me, grinning like a maniac. “Can I have her killed?”

“Absolutely not,” I hiss, popping his butt. “Have you lost your dang mind? You and I are going to have a long, hard talk about your behavior recently. I love you for loving me enough to kill and maim people on my behalf, but you’re out of control, baby. You’re unhinged.”

He scowls at me. “Fine. Rude, but fine.” Darren flicks his thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the platform. “Gonna go give my sermon now.”

“You realize you’re not going to change any of their minds, right?”

“I will. I’m gonna have Meadows find a way to ban Fox News from all their televisions. Gonna force them to watch endless left-wing podcasts. Gonna indoctrinate them the way their nearly departed fearless leader indoctrinated them.” He smiles at the crowd. “Like Tatum says, too bad, so sad.”

After two excruciating hours of Darren attempting to explain the difference between bisexuality and demisexuality to the members of our church, he gives up, flinging his hands in the air.

“Fine. Fucking fine. Every single one of you are being purposefully ignorant right now, and we’re about to nip it in the bud. I’m giving you homework,” Darren growls, breathing life into the silent crowd. The congregation’s words stumble and tumble together, bouncing around the room and echoing off the walls. The noise comes to a stop when Darren stomps his foot. “Tonight, I expect every one of you to stream Brokeback Mountain. You will watch it, and you will cry your eyes out. When you’re done, I want each of you to film a reaction video for me. I’ll start a group chat for you to send them to. I expect everyone to follow through. No exceptions.”

A man in the back raises his hand. “Son? Is there a lot of homosexual romance in this film?”

“You bet your ass there is. There’s also a bit of sodomy in the middle. I don’t want to hear a single complaint about it either, Lonnie McLaughlin.” He points an accusing finger at Brother McLaughlin. “Do you understand me?”

He shakes his head, looking horrified. “No, that’s not what I meant. I think you might be right. Maybe love is love.”

Darren turns and smiles at me. “One down.”