Over three million dollars had been systematically moved from my family’s legacy trust into accounts controlled by Graham and Marjorie.

The dates of the transfers aligned perfectly with the purchases of Graham’s new business ventures.

And then there was the ring.

A certified appraisal document from three years ago, listing the diamond ring under Marjorie’s name for insurance purposes, despite it belonging to my grandmother.

It was a paper trail of greed.

At ten minutes to seven, the rain outside began to fall harder, drumming against the stained glass.

The front doors of the chapel creaked open.

I stood up from the pew as Graham and Marjorie walked into the vestibule.

Graham wore his heavy wool overcoat, his hair damp from the rain.

Marjorie walked beside him, her spine stiff, clutching her black leather handbag like a shield.

She looked around the dim church with clear distaste. “Why on earth are we meeting in a church at night, Evelyn?”

“Because this is where the theft was displayed,” I said, walking toward the communion table.

“Don’t be dramatic,” Graham said, stepping forward. “Sloane wore a ring. It was a mistake.”