“And what do you want in exchange?” I asked.

“You burn the ledger,” Marjorie said, pointing toward the fireplace.

“Right now. In front of me.”

She leaned closer, the scent of her expensive lavender perfume washing over me.

“You destroy the ledger, and you never speak of Arthur’s death to anyone,” she said.

“If you do this, the Caldwell name remains intact, and you get your freedom without a single day in court.”

I looked at the dry birch logs in the hearth, then back to the document.

“Why are you so afraid of this ledger, Marjorie?” I asked. “If it is just gossip, why offer me everything?”

“Because a family name is like glass, Evelyn,” she said softly. “Once it is cracked, it can never be mended.”

“And what about Pastor Whitcomb?” I asked. “Graham just said he was asking questions.”

Marjorie’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of genuine fear crossing her face before she masked it.

“The pastor is a non-issue,” she said quickly. “He knows his place.”

“Does he?” I asked. “Or does he know what your family did to the church funds fifty years ago?”