He then heads upstairs to look for Nicki. He notices a bedroom door closed. He heads over. The door is very dramatically lit -- only Bill and the area around him are illuminated, so you know that when he opens the door, it will be no ordinary door-opening. Nicki's laughing behind the door. Bill opens it, steps inside, and gapes for a while.

Inside, Roman's reclining on the bed. Nicki's lying in front of him, cowboy-booted legs swinging back and forth, and as she laughs, she buries her face in his lap. He's coaxing her, "You can tell me." Roman looks up, and his face curdles. It's not clear to me whether he looks sad or ashamed. Bill's jaw sets. He bids his giggling wife to get her face out of Roman's lap and she rolls over, looking surprised to see him. Bill says, "Some of the guests are leaving. Come down." She rolls over and gets off the bed, all laughter gone. As she walks away, Roman looks grieved.

When she walks by Bill, she's careful not to brush against him. Nicki's really not that big on the physical affection with him, is she? Bill keeps glaring at Roman. The older man puts his hat back on. Now that his war paint's in place, he can muster the cojones to tell Bill haughtily, "You have robbed me of the tithes and offerings due to me. Don't be trying to protect yourself, son, because there is no place to hide." Roman stalks off and Bill watches him go, thinking, Wow, he's really unclear about the difference between being the Prophet of the Lord and God himself.

Roman strides out hand-in-hand with Rhonda; she's preening haughtily at nobody in particular. The rest of the cultists troop out silently. Barb stands there, equally quiet. Margene wanders over to stand by them; she's just baffled. Bill says, "Night, y'all," but it's nowhere near as bluff and hearty as he'd like it to be. Margene gamely calls, "It was very nice to meet you all." Nobody turns around or acknowledges her.

As the car pulls away, Roman looks obscurely pleased. Nicki turns away, unnoticed, and slips back inside. Oh, wait, someone did notice -- the neighbor across the street. Busted!

Roman's leading a sing-along in the car -- more about the church in the dell -- and as Rhonda sings the line, "There's none so dear to my childhood / as the little brown church in the dell," we see her thumb the wheel on a pink iPod mini. She's smiling happily, as though she's just been told a great secret. I hope that secret is "Sarah uploaded a lot of songs that send subliminal messages on how much marriage to ancient old men sucks for young girls."