She kept her eyes fixed on Pastor Whitcomb, who stood perfectly still in his dark robes, his head bowed as if he were already hearing a confession.

“It was sixty years ago,” Marjorie whispered, her voice barely louder than the hum of the chapel’s ancient heating vents.

“The Caldwell estate needed an heir, or the entire inheritance would have reverted to the state,” she said.

She finally let go of her pearls, her hands falling limply to her sides.

“My husband, Arthur, could not have children,” Marjorie said.

A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the pews.

Sloane shifted her weight, her cheap heels squeaking against the wood, though no one looked at her.

“I did what I had to do to save the family name,” Marjorie said, her eyes filling with tears that did not fall.

“I went to Thomas Whitcomb,” she whispered.

Pastor Whitcomb closed his eyes and slowly crossed himself.

“Thomas was my father,” the pastor said softly.

“He was the youth minister here before he took the parish in the valley,” the pastor added.