“Every single one tied to the Caldwell trust,” Julian said, his voice entirely devoid of emotion.

Sloane took a step away from Graham, her eyes darting toward the side exit near the altar.

Officer Ramirez took three slow, deliberate steps down the aisle, his boots thudding against the carpet runner.

The red and blue emergency lights of his patrol car flashed silently against the stained-glass windows behind the altar.

“Graham Caldwell,” Ramirez said, his voice echoing under the high rafters.

Graham did not look at the officer; he was still staring at his phone, his thumb swiping frantically across the screen.

“This is my house,” Graham muttered, his voice dropping to a low, ragged growl. “This is my church.”

Pastor Whitcomb stepped between Graham and the altar, his face set in a look of quiet sorrow.

“Not anymore, Graham,” the pastor said.

Marjorie reached out to touch Graham’s sleeve, but he violently jerked his arm away from her.

“You ruined this,” Graham spat at his mother. “You built this whole family on a lie.”

“I did it for you,” Marjorie sobbed, covering her face with her wrinkled hands.