“Marjorie Caldwell?” Agent Miller asked, his voice echoing in the rafters of the chapel.

Marjorie did not move; she stood straight, her chin tilted upward, her hands clasped tightly in front of her wool coat.

“I am Marjorie Caldwell,” she said.

“And Graham Caldwell?” the second officer asked, looking down at the man kneeling by the altar.

Graham let out a low, ragged groan but did not stand.

“We have warrants for your arrest,” Agent Miller said, stepping forward.

The sound of his heavy boots on the floor filled the quiet space between the pews.

“On what charges?” Marjorie demanded, her voice cracking slightly but retaining its sharp edge.

“Conspiracy to commit interstate transportation of stolen property, mail fraud, and grand larceny,” Agent Miller replied.

He pulled a set of papers from his inner pocket, though he did not hand them over yet.

“This is an absurdity,” Marjorie said, her eyes darting toward Julian.

“Julian, tell them this is a civil dispute,” she ordered, her tone commanding but desperate.

Julian did not look at her; he began arranging the documents in his briefcase with methodical care.