She found none.

She turned and walked out into the rain, her thin heels splashing in the puddles outside.

The heavy oak doors remained open, letting the cold air and the sound of the falling rain fill the sanctuary.

Pastor Whitcomb walked to the entrance and pulled the doors shut, slide-bolting them into place.

The chapel grew quiet again, the sound of the storm muffled by the thick stone walls.

“Are you alright, Evelyn?” Julian asked, stepping up to the altar rail.

“Yes,” I said, taking a deep breath of the damp, cedar-scented air.

“I am.”

I turned to Pastor Whitcomb, who was walking back toward us, his hands clasped behind his back.

“The land,” I said, looking at the document Julian had laid out on the wooden rail.

Julian reached into his pocket and produced a silver fountain pen, unscrewing the cap with a small click.

“The deed transfer is fully prepared,” Julian said, pointing to the signature line at the bottom of the parchment.

“With Marjorie and Graham’s assets frozen and the trust under court receivership, you have sole executing authority as the primary beneficiary of your grandmother’s estate.”