A figure stood in the doorway, drenched from the storm, holding a small velvet box in her hand.

It was Sloane.

She looked terrified, her eyes darting from Graham to the police officers.

“Graham,” she called out, her voice cracking in the empty space. “The police were at my apartment.”

She took a step down the center aisle, her wet shoes squeaking on the stone.

“I brought it back,” Sloane said, holding the velvet box out in front of her like an offering.

I walked toward her, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“Give it to me,” I said.

Sloane trembled as I reached out and took the box from her hand.

I opened the lid.

The diamond caught the dim light of the chapel chandelier, sparkling against the damp black velvet.

I looked up at Graham, who was now being held by the arm by Detective Miller.

His face was completely devoid of color.

Marjorie stood beside him, her eyes fixed on the ring in my hand, her expression hardening into something desperate.

“It doesn’t end with the ring, Evelyn,” Marjorie said, her voice low and menacing.