“Evelyn, listen to me,” Graham stammered, his voice cracking under the weight of the altar lights.

“It wasn’t my idea,” he said, his boots scraping against the stone floor as he tried to pull away from Detective Miller.

“Quiet, Graham,” Marjorie said, her posture rigid as a iron pillar.

“No, Mother! I’m not going to prison for this!” Graham shouted, his face turning a deep, desperate red.

“She made me do it, Evelyn,” he pleaded, looking at me with wild, sweat-sheened eyes.

“She told me to take the ring from your vault.”

“She said it was the only way to secure the collateral for the Geneva loan.”

Sloane Mercer took a step back, her high heels clicking sharply against the floorboards.

“You told me the ring was a family heirloom you wanted me to have, Graham,” Sloane whispered, her face pale.

“You told me it was yours to give.”

“He lied to you, Sloane,” I said, keeping my eyes on my husband.

“He lies to everyone.”

“I had to do it, Evelyn,” Graham insisted, his voice rising to a frantic pitch.

“The estate was failing.”