“The small lacquer box is empty, Evelyn,” Julian said.

Marjorie let out a sharp, ragged breath.

“He has them,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “He took the transcripts from forty years ago.”

“The ones involving the church accounts?” I asked.

She nodded, her fingers gripping her pearl necklace so tightly the string looked ready to snap.

“He knows about Whitcomb’s father,” she said. “He knows what we kept quiet to protect the parish.”

Graham wanted the church assets.

The historic chapel land was worth millions, and the trust was tied to the Caldwell name.

But he needed the pastor’s signature to dissolve the ancestral trust.

“If he threatens Whitcomb with those documents, the pastor will sign anything,” Julian said, checking his pocket watch.

“We have to go to the chapel,” I said.

The rain was starting to beat against the tall library windows, a dull, rhythmic thudding.

Marjorie sank into a leather armchair, looking smaller than I had ever seen her.

“He will ruin us all,” she whispered. “He doesn’t care about the family name anymore. Only the money.”

I did not feel pity for her.