“Is that Sloane’s family?” Pastor Whitcomb asked, leaning over my shoulder.

“No,” Julian said, his voice hard. “Sloane didn’t even know the company existed until last week.”

“The registered owner of that shell company is Graham Caldwell.”

I felt a cold sweat break out on the back of my neck.

“He was stealing from my grandmother’s legacy,” I said, the words heavy and bitter in my mouth.

“He wasn’t just stealing,” Julian corrected. “He was draining it dry.”

“To fund what?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

I looked up at Marjorie, who was still standing near the altar.

She had not moved an inch.

Her face was a mask of cold, pale stone, illuminated by the red glow of the sanctuary lamp.

“Where did the money go, Marjorie?” I demanded, stepping away from the altar rail.

She did not look at me.

She kept her eyes fixed on the stained-glass window of the weeping angel.

“The estate requires a great deal of upkeep, Evelyn,” Marjorie said, her voice smooth and devoid of regret.

“The roof at the manor had to be replaced.”