“I found this in the archives at the historic estate,” I said.

“This boy isn’t a Caldwell.”

“But he has your eyes, Graham.”

Pastor Whitcomb walked out from the vestry, his black robes rustling as he approached our pew.

He stopped when he saw the photograph in my hand.

Marjorie’s breath caught in her throat.

She stared at the image of the boy, her hand clutching her pearls.

“Where did you get that?” Marjorie whispered.

She looked up at Pastor Whitcomb, her eyes filled with sudden terror.

Marjorie’s fingers trembled so hard against her pearls that the delicate silk thread holding them together seemed ready to snap.

She looked from the faded photograph to the pastor, her face losing what little color it had left.

“Tell them, Marjorie,” I said, keeping my voice level and cold.

The emerald ring felt heavy and ice-cold on my finger, a physical anchor to the truth.

Graham stepped forward, his leather shoes clicking sharply on the stone floor of the chapel.

“What is this, Mother?” Graham demanded, his voice cracking. “Who is that boy?”

Marjorie did not look at her son.