Holding my daughter’s cold body, I walked into the church’s baptismal pool as the congregation gathered for morning prayer. They thought I had lost my mind, that I was staging a blasphemous suicide to protest God’s injustice. My husband, Caleb—the celebrity pastor who had sacrificed our daughter on a frozen mountaintop to prove his devotion—thought so, too. He thought this was the end of the tragedy. He was wrong. It was the beginning of my reckoning. With an ally’s help, I faked my death. An unidentified woman’s body took my place. Five years later, I was an investigative journalist with a modest but growing reputation in Austin. He had squandered his fortune and searched for me like a madman, desperate for a single word of forgiveness to save his collapsing soul. After my new book launch, he cornered me, dropped to his knees, and sobbed out his repentance. He thought finding me would bring him redemption. He didn’t know I had only come back to tell hi......
