Graham’s black SUV was parked crookedly near the side entrance, its tires resting on the manicured grass.

Julian parked behind him, blocking him in.

We walked quickly toward the heavy oak doors of the side chapel.

The air inside was cool and smelled of beeswax and damp wool.

From the main sanctuary, I heard voices rising.

They were echoing off the high stone arches.

“You don’t have a choice, Arthur,” Graham’s voice boomed, flat and hard.

We walked quietly down the carpeted side aisle, staying in the shadows of the stone pillars.

Pastor Whitcomb was standing near the altar, his face pale under the stained-glass window.

He was holding a thick manila folder, his hands trembling.

Graham stood opposite him, his coat still wet from the rain.

“My father built this sanctuary, and my family funded your entire seminary education,” Graham said, stepping closer to the older man.

“Your father did those things out of charity, Graham, not as an investment,” Pastor Whitcomb said, his voice shaking.

“Charity?” Graham laughed, a dry, unpleasant sound. “He did it because your father embezzled thirty thousand dollars from the parish building fund in 1978.”