The silhouette resolved into the sharp, slender frame of Sloane Mercer.

She stepped into the vestibule, her wet heels clicking loudly against the flagstones.

In her right hand, her phone screen cast a cold, blue glow across her pale face.

Her hair was damp from the storm, sticking to her cheeks in dark, thin strands.

Behind her, the headlights of two dark utility vehicles swept across the stained-glass windows, casting long, fractured shadows of red and blue across the altar.

“Graham?” Sloane called out, her voice thin and trembling.

Graham did not look up from the altar rail.

He kept his forehead pressed against the dark wood, his shoulders still hitched in silent, uneven breaths.

“Graham, there are cars in the driveway,” Sloane said, taking a step toward the nave.

She stopped when she saw Julian Voss standing next to me, his leather briefcase resting open on the nearest pew.

She saw the velvet box in my hand.

She saw Marjorie, whose face had gone completely gray in the dim light of the altar candles.

“What is going on here?” Sloane asked, her gaze darting from me to Marjorie.