“It is over, Sloane,” I said, my voice steady and quiet.

“Evelyn, please,” Sloane said, stepping closer, her wet heels tapping on the floor.

She reached toward her neck, her fingers hovering over her collarbone as if looking for the weight of the necklace she usually wore.

“I didn’t know about the estate accounts,” she said, her voice rising.

“You knew enough to wear my grandmother’s ring to the Sunday service,” I said.

I looked down at the velvet box, then closed the lid with a soft, final click.

“I was told it was an heirloom for the family,” Sloane said, her eyes wide. “He told me it was his to give.”

“It was never his,” I said.

The heavy oak doors behind her swung open fully this time, banging against the stone wall of the vestibule.

Two men in dark, waterproof coats stepped into the chapel.

Their badges caught the light of the altar candles, gleaming gold and silver against the dark fabric.

The first officer was Agent Miller, a tall man with a quiet, professional demeanor whom Julian had contacted earlier in the week.