The plush carpet absorbed the sound of his steps. Feeling drawn to the front—like a magnet pulled him—Cole strode to the altar. The simple furnishings were draped with a purple tablecloth, flames from candles put off a soft, glowing light. Everything seemed to exude hope. That all would be okay. That blind trust was the answer. He shook his head. How? He was used to control. Plans. Missions. Planting his hands on his hips, he stared at a statue of Jesus. "Who are You?" "You need anything, son?" Cole snapped his attention to the voice behind him. "Can I help?" A man dressed in slacks and golf shirt approached, a small leather book in his left hand. Turning his attention back to the statue, he pulled his thoughts together. "I don't think so." "I'm a chaplain. Scott Murphy." The man nudged Cole's elbow with his hand. "Would you like to talk about it?" He turned around and gripped the man's hand. What could it hurt?
