“Graham?” she whispered.

He did not answer.

The officer guided him past her, his shoulder brushing against hers in the narrow doorway.

Marjorie followed, her head held high, her spine straight, though her steps were slower than usual.

They disappeared into the wet darkness of the porch, and a moment later, the blue and red lights of the police cruisers began to flash against the wet gravel of the driveway.

Sloane stood alone in the vestibule, looking back into the warm light of the chapel.

Her gaze fell on me, then on the velvet box I still held against my coat.

“The necklace,” Sloane said, her voice barely audible over the sound of the wind.

“The one I left at the estate.”

“It has been logged as evidence, Sloane,” I said.

“It was purchased with funds from my grandmother’s trust.”

“I have nothing,” she said, her voice flat and hollow.

“You have your freedom tonight,” I said.

“I suggest you use it to leave Grace Harbor.”

She looked at me for a long moment, perhaps waiting for some sign of anger or triumph on my face.