“O’Brien case.”

Gears meshed. The picture materialized. Big woman. Filling the doorway of the small brick house. “Gray sweats,” he recalled.

“Redskins jersey,” Jose added. “Mean like no tomorrow.”

The phone rang. Jose answered. Listened. Hung up.

“Emerson wants to see us.”

Walking down the hallway toward the stairs, Frank noticed a weariness around Jose’s eyes.

“You sleep last night?”

Jose shook his head. “Going home, I stopped by Daddy’s.”

“Oh?”

“He wasn’t home. Mama said he was still at the church.”

A single light far up in the rafters illuminated the altar and pulpit. His father sat in a front pew, head bowed.

Jose put his hand on his father’s shoulder. Titus Phelps reached up and covered his son’s hand with his own.

“Getting late, Daddy.”

His father looked at him, then to the altar. He moved over. Jose sat down beside him.

Titus Phelps paused as if listening to a voice inside himself. “Just sitting here, talking with Jesus.”

“You heard about over on Bayless Place?”

His father turned to him. “You ever wonder, Josephus, what keeps us safe? Truly safe?”

“Go on, Daddy.”

“You’re my oldest son… a policeman. You’re strong… you’re smart. But you can’t keep us safe.”

Titus Phelps listened to his private, inner voice, then nodded in agreement.

“It’s inside us, Josephus, the power to keep ourselves safe. So we don’t have to fear the night. So we can trust our neighbors.” He paused, then, voice picking up momentum, continued: “That power is in us. Each of us. And if we don’t use it, it goes away. And if that happens, we won’t be safe, no matter how many police we have… even if they’re all as strong and as smart as my son.”

The words had rolled through the church toward the farthest pews in the back. Jose knew he’d heard the beginnings of a sermon yet to be preached.