He looked at me, his eyes pleading, but I kept my expression neutral and remote.

The second officer moved toward Marjorie, producing a pair of metal handcuffs from his belt.

The metallic click of the cuffs felt incredibly loud in the empty chapel.

“Hands behind your back, please,” the officer told Marjorie.

“I will not be treated like a common thief in my own family’s church,” Marjorie said, her voice rising in pitch.

“This church belongs to the congregation, Mrs. Caldwell,” Pastor Whitcomb said from the shadows near the vestry door.

“It has not belonged to your family for a very long time.”

Marjorie turned her head toward the pastor, her eyes narrowing into cold slits.

“Your father would still be tending the gardens if it weren’t for my husband’s charity,” she said.

“My father paid for this land with thirty years of hard labor,” the pastor replied gently.

“Labor that your husband never fully compensated.”

The officer took Marjorie’s wrists and guided them behind her back, clicking the cuffs into place.

She stiffened but did not fight him further.