Page 28 of Robbin’ the Rich

If Jesus came back today, I genuinely thought he’d ask why the sanctuary had concert lighting.

I checked the time and groaned. Late. Again.

Not catastrophically late, but enough that my mother would surely notice.

I hurried inside through one of the side entrances just as music thundered through the walls. The worship band was already halfway through the second song.

I slipped into the back hallway quietly, hoping to avoid attention.

“Wow.”

Too late.

My older brother Daniel leaned against the wall near production control with his arms crossed, and a grin already forming.

“There he is,” he said. “The prodigal son.”

I pointed at him tiredly. “Can we not?”

Daniel’s eyes drifted slowly down my outfit. I was still in black pants and wrinkled black button-up hanging open over a t-shirt. My sleeves were down to hide my tattoos. I wasn’t sure why I was still hiding it from them. There were plenty of people here with tattoos. But to me it felt like a piece of the real world that anchored me away from the smoke and mirror of this one.

And unfortunately, the priest collar was sticking halfway out of my pants pocket, because apparently I was no longer capable of functioning like a normal person after Robbin’ Banks.

His eyebrows shot up immediately.

“…What on earth are you wearing?”

I looked down at myself and sighed.

“Don’t ask,” I said, shoving the white collar deep into my pocket.

“Oh no.” Daniel’s grin widened. “Oh, this is good.”

“It’s not good.”

“You finally joined a cult?”

“Ironic location for that accusation.”

Daniel barked out a laugh while I shoved past him toward the empty seat in the control room overlooking the sanctuary. Inside, Ascension Fellowship looked exactly like every polished mega church in America. It was a dark auditorium with stage lights sweeping over raised hands. Huge screens projected lyrics in cinematic fonts on either side of the stage.

And there, front and center, stood my father. He remained perfectly composed beneath lighting and thousands of admiring eyes.

Pastor Daniel Nottingham. The face of Ascension Fellowship. People loved him. Honestly, sometimes, I understood why. He was charismatic and brilliant on stage. He was the kind of man who could make an arena feel intimate with nothing but a microphone and a smile. Too bad I knew him offstage too.

I sat quietly while guilt settled into my chest for reasons I still couldn’t untangle. Because the worst part was, I didn’t even know what I believed anymore. No, that’s not entirely true. I did know what I believed. Science made more sense to me for years now. I needed observable things. Tangible things that could be tested. I longed for questions allowed without shame attached to them.

But when you were a Nottingham, true belief didn’t matter. You showed up. You smiled. You played your role. The machine kept moving.

After service ended, the crowd flooded into the lobby in waves of expensive perfume and cheerful small talk. I was halfway to freedom when my mother appeared like a beautifully dressed sniper. “There you are.”

Damn it.

Mom looped her arm through mine immediately, elegant and perfectly put together as always. “Why were you late?” she asked.

I took a sip of coffee to buy time. “Car trouble.”

“Micah.”