Chapter 3: The Art of Irrelevant Questions

The conversation at the dinner table started like any other Friday evening, the clink of cutlery against porcelain mixing with the low hum of the television in the sitting room. But my mind wasn’t on the food. For as long as I could remember, Brother Alex had been an immovable fixture of the church—arriving before dawn, staying long after the final benediction, and moving through the halls with that infuriating, collected calm. Yet, despite how closely I watched him, I had never once seen a ring on his finger, nor had I ever heard anyone mention a girlfriend or a wife.

*Does he even have a woman?* the thought had gnawed at me for weeks. *Does he go home to an empty house, or is there someone waiting in the dark? And if he’s single... why hasn't he ever looked at me? Am I not beautiful enough?*

I pushed my food around my plate, biding my time until the atmosphere felt light enough to strike. Across the table, my father was talking about the upcoming church harvest, his chest puffed out with the usual deacon's pride. When there was a brief lull in the conversation, I casually set my fork down, schooling my features into an expression of polite, innocent curiosity.

“Daddy?” I asked, pitching my voice just right.

My father looked up from his plate, smiling warmly. “Yes, my child? What is it?”

“I’ve been thinking about Brother Alex,” I said, letting a thoughtful frown touch my brow. “The way he’s always so active in church—coming early in the morning and closing up late in the evening, even when almost everyone has gone home, arranging chairs and making sure everything is in order... doesn’t he have a wife or someone waiting for him at home? I’ve never seen a ring, and I was just wondering.”

My mother chuckled softly from the other end of the table, shaking her head. “Pat, my dear, Alex is not married. He’s actually quite single. Maybe we’ll find a good church girl for him one of these days soon.”

My father laughed, a hearty, booming sound that echoed off the dining room walls. “You kids always notice these things, don’t you? But your mother is right. Alex is a dedicated young man, entirely devoted to the ministry right now. He pours so much of his time into putting the house of God in order that he hardly has time to look after his own household.”

I nodded slowly, keeping my eyes cast downward so they wouldn't betray the sudden, violent spike of adrenaline racing through my veins. *Single.* The word echoed in my mind like a starting gun.

“That’s very true,” my father continued, slicing another piece of meat. “A young man living alone with all those responsibilities... I imagine his place is quite a mess.”

I seized the opening. “You know... tomorrow is Saturday. I don't have any major lectures or plans, and since he does so much for the church without complaining, what if I go over to his place? Just to help out a little—wash his clothes, tidy up the chores around the house, and show a bit of appreciation for everything he does for us.”

My father looked up, blinking in pleasant surprise. He exchanged a proud glance with my mother before beaming back at me.

“That’s very thoughtful of you, my child,” my father said, his face softening with genuine approval. “Very thoughtful indeed. It’s good to look out for our brethren. Let me call him right now and see if he would be fine with an extra pair of hands tomorrow.”

My heart hammered against my ribs, threatening to leap right out of my throat. For a horrifying second, I thought about blurting out a protest—wanting to make the arrangements myself, wanting the privacy of setting it up directly. But I forced myself to sit completely still, my hands resting flat in my lap, fingers digging into my own thighs to keep from shaking.

My father pulled his phone from his pocket, tapping the screen before holding it to his ear. After a couple of rings, Alex answered on the other end.

“Pastor Alex, my son,” my father greeted warmly, turning on his speakerphone so the whole table could hear. “Good evening. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Good evening, Daddy. Not at all,” Alex’s smooth, familiar voice came through the speaker, rich and composed. “Just winding down for the night. How are things?”

“Everything is blessed. I’m calling because of something our daughter, Pat, brought up just now. She was mentioning how hard you work for the church, always staying behind to put things in order, and she felt led to come over tomorrow morning—just to help you sort out your laundry and handle some basic house chores, if you’re okay with it, to show our appreciation.”

There was a brief pause on the line. I held my breath, the air turning thick and heavy in my lungs.

When Alex spoke, a genuine note of surprise and relief cut through his usual calm tone. “Oh... wow. Really? To be honest with you, Daddy, my place is a total mess right now. Between work and church activities, I haven't had the time to clean properly, and it hasn't been easy managing it all alone. I would be... genuinely grateful if she could come.”

My father smiled broadly, shooting a proud look across the table at me. “Splendid! She’ll be there tomorrow morning, then. Just make sure you give her the address or have her meet you.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll text her the details right away,” Alex replied.

“Alright, my son. Have a blessed night.”

“Good night, Daddy. Thank you.”

The line clicked dead. As soon as my father lowered the phone, I looked up, keeping my face carefully controlled, masking the wild triumph clawing at my insides.

“Well, there you have it,” my father beamed, pocketing his phone. “He said yes. He’ll send you the address. But mind you, Pat—don't waste time over there. Once you’re done with whatever needs to be done, you come straight back home, do you hear me?”

I offered a soft, perfectly demure smile, taking great care not to look overly excited so I wouldn't raise a single suspicion.

“Yes, Daddy,” I replied smoothly, my voice sweet and innocent. “I’ll be right back as soon as I'm finished.”

Beneath the table, my fingers curled tightly into the fabric of my dress, my skin burning with a quiet, wicked thrill. Tomorrow morning, I wasn't going to be the sweet, invisible Sister Pat sitting in the front row. I was going to step right inside his personal space, behind a locked door where no one else could see them, and find out exactly what kind of man lived beneath all those holy clothes.

My phone buzzed against my thigh with an incoming text.

I pulled it out under the table glow. It wasn't an address from Alex.

It was a text from an unknown number, displaying a single, chilling photo of my bedroom window wide open in the dark, with a typed caption beneath it: *I've been waiting for you to come over for a long time, Pat. Don't keep me waiting tomorrow.*