I looked down at the velvet box in my hand, the weight of the gold ring inside feeling heavier than ever.

The chapel was silent except for the sound of Graham’s quiet sobbing and the wind rattling the stained-glass windows behind the altar.

Pastor Whitcomb stepped toward me, his face filled with a quiet, worn sorrow.

“Evelyn,” the pastor said gently.

“The land this chapel stands on has been a burden to both our families for generations.”

“I know,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

“But it doesn’t have to be anymore.”

I looked at the deed transfer document Julian had prepared, which was still tucked into the side pocket of his briefcase.

The future of the Grace Harbor congregation depended on what I did next with that piece of paper.

Before I could speak, the heavy oak doors at the back of the chapel creaked open.

A wet draft of night air rushed in, extinguishing several candles on the side altar.

A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the dark, rainy night outside, holding a cell phone that was brightly lit.