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make an appearance assured that the world’s media would be focused that day on Samantha Cleaveland and the house of worship she had built, despite her grief and the unimaginable tragedy she had endured.
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    Cynthia Pryce pressed the button on the remote control, causing the flat-screen television in her den to flicker and bounce from one image to the next. It was seven o’clock on a Tuesday evening, and many of the air waves were dedicated to the evening news. On every news station Cynthia was assaulted either by stories heralding the grand opening of New Testament Cathedral or by the smiling face, coiffed hair, and conture swathed Samantha Cleaveland. She was everywhere. CNN, FOX . . . all the networks and all the local news stations.
    Cynthia Pryce pressed the remote harder every time Samantha’s high-definition smiling head filled the screen. Her fingers ached from the death grip she had on the device.
    â€œTonight our guest is the incomparable Pastor Samantha—” said Anderson Cooper. Cynthia flinched and quickly pressed the remote.
    â€œEveryone wants to know just how you were able to build this magnificent church even though you just lost your husband,” said Tavis Smiley.
    â€œFaith in—”
    Cynthia pressed the remote hard again before being battered by Samantha’s response.
    â€œNew Testament Cathedral has risen like a phoenix from the ashes in downtown Los Angeles,” the blank-faced brunette anchor read from the teleprompter. “The first service at New Testament Cathedral’s new forty-five-million-dollar sanctuary is only five days away.”
    Cynthia had grown weary of running from Samantha and allowed the reporter to fill her head and home with the latest on the woman she hated.
    â€œThis coming Sunday morning, only eight weeks after the horrific assassination of her husband, Pastor Hezekiah Cleaveland,” the reporter continued, “Pastor Samantha Cleaveland will preach the first sermon in her new twenty-five-thousand-seat glass cathedral.”
    Cynthia could feel the muscles in her shoulders and neck tighten as the woman spoke.
    â€œIn addition to the millions of viewers around the world who are expected to watch the live broadcast, the guest list for the service includes such names as Magic Johnson and his wife, Cookie, Oprah Winfrey and Gayle King, Tyler Perry, Kevin Costner, Janet Jackson, former president Bill Clinton, and former secretaries of state Hillary Clinton and Condoleezza Rice.”
    Cynthia’s left eye began to twitch as the reporter droned on about the woman who had captured the hearts and minds of millions. She twisted nervously on the leather sofa and resisted the urge to change the channel once again.
    The demise of Hezekiah and Samantha Cleaveland had become an obsession for Cynthia over the past two years. She derived a modicum of pride from knowing that she had leaked the story of Hezekiah’s homosexual affair to the Los Angeles Chronicle reporter Lance Savage.
    If that little reporter hadn’t gotten himself killed, she thought as she stared blankly at the TV screen, the story of that disgusting affair would have been front page news, and I would be the first lady of New Testament Cathedral right now.
    It was Cynthia who had printed dozens of e-mails that Hezekiah had sent to Danny St. John from the computer in his office. These communications chronicled the passionate and emotional details of the relationship between one of the most powerful ministers in the country and a young social worker in downtown Los Angeles.
    Cynthia squirmed even more when she recalled the cold night months earlier, when she talked with Lance Savage in her Mercedes, behind the large mounds of dirt piled near the then metal skeleton of New Testament Cathedral.
    â€œI knew I couldn’t trust you. This is extortion,” she had said to the balding reporter.
    â€œNow hold on, Mrs. Pryce,” Lance had said seductively.