She had spent decades holding those secrets over people’s heads.

Now, her own son had stolen her leverage to save himself.

Julian and I hurried down the marble steps to his sedan.

The gravel crunched under our shoes as we ran through the cold drizzle.

The leather seats of Julian’s car smelled of old paper and peppermint.

He started the engine, the windshield wipers scraping back and forth against the glass.

“If Graham forces Whitcomb’s hand, the transfer of the parish land becomes legal on paper,” Julian said as he shifted into drive.

“How did he even find out about the safe key?” I asked.

“Sloane, likely,” Julian replied, keeping his eyes on the winding, wet road. “She has been living in his pockets for months.”

I looked down at my bare ring finger.

My grandmother’s ring was still out there, probably in Sloane’s jewelry box, or perhaps already pawned.

The thought made my chest tighten with a cold, quiet anger.

“We will get it back, Evelyn,” Julian said, as if reading my mind. “All of it.”

The stone steeple of Grace Harbor Chapel rose against the grey afternoon sky.