Graham took a step toward her, his face pale.

“Mother, tell them,” Graham said, his hand still hovering near the silver tray. “Tell them Sloane is lying.”

Marjorie did not answer him.

She walked slowly down the center aisle, her wet heels clicking against the stone floor.

Pastor Whitcomb watched her, his hand resting on the heavy wooden altar.

“Marjorie,” the pastor said softly. “You should not be here.”

“I have every right to be in this church, Arthur,” Marjorie replied, stopping just short of the chancel steps.

She turned her gaze to Sloane, who was still trembling near the vestry door.

Sloane shrank back, her hand instinctively covering the emerald-cut diamond ring on her finger.

The ring that had belonged to my grandmother.

“Give me the keys, Graham,” Marjorie said, extending a thin, gloved hand toward her son.

Graham looked at her, his eyes wide with a desperate kind of hope.

“We can still fix this,” Graham whispered.

“There is nothing to fix,” Sloane interrupted, her voice suddenly steady, though her hands shook.

We all looked at Sloane.