Shakespeare's Counselor by Charlaine Harris

that time was passing.
    I finally convinced myself that the sanest response was, “So what?”
    Â 
    Letting myself into my silent house in Shakespeare, I peeled off my sweaty clothes and headed for the shower. Fifteen minutes later, fluffing up my curls with my fingers, I checked my answering machine. My friend Carrie Thrush’s voice said, “When you come in today, give me a call, please. I know you’re in the middle of learning a new job, but I have a cleaning crisis. Plus, I just want to talk to you.” I wrote her name on the notepad by the phone. The second message was from Melanie. “Hey, I guess I got the right number, that sounded like your voice on the message. Listen, we all need to talk. Give me a call.” She read off her number, hesitated as if she was going to add something, then hung up.
    For the first time, I looked at the message counter. Eight. I’d never had so many before.
    A smoky voice began, “Ms. Bard, I hope you’re over your shock today. This is Detective Stokes. I need you to come in to make a statement about last night.” Alicia Stokes bit out each word as though it would dissolve her mouth if it weren’t perfectly enunciated.
    The next call was from Tamsin, who wanted to reschedule our interrupted therapy session. I had to laugh out loud at that.
    Firella had called. And Janet, sounding weak. And Carla. Everyone but Sandy. Her husband had called.
    â€œLily, this is Joel McCorkindale.” He had a rich, sincere voice that I would have recognized anywhere. “I would like to speak with you about this therapy group you’ve been attending with my wife. I hope you don’t think she broke whatever confidentiality you have to keep with the group; I just recognized you walking in last week when I dropped Sandy off. Please call me back at the church at your earliest convenience.”
    I glanced at my watch. It was five-thirty. I looked up the church number and dialed.
    He picked up the phone himself. His secretary must have gone home. This must be an important conversation to the Reverend Mr. McCorkindale.
    â€œLily,” he said with elaborate pleasure, when I identified myself. “I was hoping you could come down here and we could have a talk?”
    I thought about it. I’d had my shower, and felt better, though still very tired.
    â€œI guess,” I said reluctantly. “I can be down there in a couple of minutes.”
    I put on a little makeup to obscure the dark circles under my eyes, brushed my hair, and set out. Locking my front door behind me, I plodded down the front steps and over to the sidewalk, turning right. Watching my feet carefully because the sidewalk was cracked in many places, I went past the Shakespeare Garden Apartments and then around the corner (the big squared U that went around the arboretum road bearing three names was actually a cul-de-sac) to the parking lot and redbrick buildings of Shakespeare Combined Church. Joel McCorkindale’s office was upstairs over the expanded Sunday School wing, and the day-care program it housed was closed for the day. The gym was busy, judging by the cars parked outside, but it was a separate facility on the other side of the church proper. So the big building was silent when I opened the glass door at the bottom of the stairs.
    I plodded up, gripping the handrail, feeling more and more exhausted as I mounted. I didn’t think I’d ever felt as washed-out in my life. I managed to get to the reverend’s office and knock on the door without stopping to rest, but I had to push myself. And it was karate night, too, I groaned to myself. I’d just have to miss.
    Joel came to the door to open it and usher me in. It was one of those little courtesies that endeared him to so many of his congregation, especially women.
    I sat down in the comfortable chair he indicated, and I was happy to do it. Joel sat in a matching chair a careful distance away—no desk