Page 92 of The Witch's Orchard
I shrug.
“Maybe you didn’t know.”
His eyes narrow, and the color comes back.
“I did my time. Maybe not behind bars but I did my time. I made a mistake and I did my time, you understand? And when I got out, I went to seminary and I met Rebecca and—”
“Where did you meet?”
“She was the daughter of one of my teachers at seminary.”
“Hmm.”
He ignores that, keeps going, “I met her and I married her and I finished school.”
“And you moved here.”
“Yes. I preached at a small church in Georgia for a few months and then this position became vacant and it was closer to where Rebecca grew up—”
“Which was where?”
“Just over in Hardstone County, few miles down the road.”
“So you met Rebecca and you got married and you moved here and started preaching for First Baptist.”
“Yes.”
“And you never had kids…”
He looks away. His big shoulders slump.
“It’s odd,” I say, pressing it.
“It’s not your business. That’s between a husband and a wife. You wanted to know about my time in the Army, the mistake I made to put me there, you got it. If I can help you find that missing little girl, then I will. But my history and mine and Rebecca’s private life have nothing—and I mean nothing—to do with it.”
“Okay,” I say. “Where were you last night?”
“Here. I was here, you saw me.”
“And Rebecca? She went to get an extension cord, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“That’s all? Nothing else?”
He nods.
I’d timed my drive from Max’s to First Baptist on the way here. I knew it didn’t take more than fifteen minutes, but I wasn’t sure how long Rebecca had been gone or exactly how much farther Bob and Rebecca’s house was.
“She helped search,” Bob says. “When she got back. We both did. We searched all night. You saw us.”
“Did you notice anyone strange in the crowd? Anyone who shouldn’t have been there?”
His eyes search the cottage-cheese ceiling for answers and then he finally shrugs.
“No. Like I already told Sheriff Jacobs. I don’t know. It’s a public function. The whole purpose of the festival is to get the community to visit the church. There were scores of people I didn’t know. You were there.”
“Can I see your hands?” I ask.
