“I didn’t sign those tax documents, Graham,” Sloane said, taking another step back toward the vestry door. “You did.”

Just then, my eyes caught a flash of silver on the small table near the altar.

It was a silver tray, and resting on it was a key ring with a heavy brass fob.

The church safe key.

Graham saw my eyes move.

Before anyone could stop him, he grabbed the folder of blackmail documents from the altar and reached for the keys.

“If I’m going down, I’m taking the chapel with me,” Graham muttered, backing toward the rear exit.

But the heavy oak doors at the back of the chapel slammed open.

A gust of wind blew rain into the entryway.

A figure stood in the doorway, wet coat glistening under the foyer light.

Marjorie Caldwell stepped into the light of the vestibule, her silk scarf soaked and clinging to her neck.

She did not look at her son.

She looked at me, her eyes cold and sharp as chipped flint.

“You always did have a dramatic streak, Evelyn,” Marjorie said, her voice carrying over the sound of the rain.