It was a double betrayal, wrapped in a neat, expensive bow.

“This is grand larceny, Marjorie,” Pastor Whitcomb said, his hand clutching his small silver pocket cross.

“It is a federal crime to manipulate charitable trust funds.”

“Who is going to prove it?” Marjorie asked, her eyes narrowing.

“Sloane Mercer is a scorned woman.”

“Her word means nothing in a court of law.”

“The bank routing numbers do not lie, Marjorie,” Julian said.

“And neither do the signatures on the authorization letters.”

I opened the next file in the folder.

It was a scanned copy of a trust withdrawal form.

At the bottom of the page was my signature.

Except I had never seen this document before.

The letters were slightly too straight, the loop of the ‘y’ too long.

“He forged my name,” I said.

My voice did not shake this time.

It was dead and cold, matching the air of the chapel.

“He spent five years forging my signature to rob my family.”

“And he used the money to buy his mistress’s favor and pay your country club dues.”

Marjorie walked slowly down the altar steps.