The screen was cold, but it glowed with a harsh, white light in the dimness of the chapel.

“What am I looking at?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

“It is a digital folder,” Julian said, his hand still hovering near mine.

“Sloane must have copied it from Graham’s private laptop before she left him.”

I tapped the screen, opening the first PDF file in the list.

It was a bank ledger for the Caldwell Charitable Trust.

This was the fund my grandmother had established to build the local clinic and support the town’s poorest families.

I stared at the column of numbers, my chest tightening.

“That can’t be right,” I said, pointing to the balance at the bottom of the page.

“The trust had three million dollars in it when we married.”

“Look at the transfer history, Evelyn,” Julian said.

I scrolled down, my thumb trembling against the glass.

Every month for the past five years, there had been a steady drain of funds.

Ten thousand dollars.

Twenty-five thousand dollars.

Sometimes fifty thousand.

The recipient of the transfers was an offshore shell company called Mercer & Associates.