I held the photograph higher, ensuring Julian’s phone camera captured every detail from where he stood in the aisle.

“So Graham is not a Caldwell,” I said, stating the fact plainly.

“He is the biological grandson of Thomas Whitcomb,” I said.

Graham took a step back, his face turning a mottled, angry red.

“That’s a lie,” Graham hissed, pointing a finger at me. “She’s fabricating this to steal my birthright.”

“The DNA registry from the historical society’s archives matched the hair sample from Arthur’s old hunting cap, Graham,” Julian said from the aisle.

Julian did not look up from his tablet as he spoke.

“There is zero genetic overlap between you and the Caldwell line,” Julian added.

The truth hung in the damp air of the chapel, smelling of old wax and wet stone.

Marjorie sank onto the cushioned pew, looking suddenly very old and very small.

“Arthur knew,” Marjorie muttered to the floor. “We agreed to take the secret to our graves.”

Sloane looked between Graham and Marjorie, her eyes wide with a sudden, calculating panic.