“And neither did you.”

The skin around his nose and mouth went a dull, chalky gray.

“Arthur Pendelton called my office an hour ago,” Higgins whispered, moving closer to me.

“He said you came by his building asking about sixty-one private church archives.”

“Arthur is a thief, and you signed your name on the adoption papers,” I said.

Higgins grabbed the front of his glasses, his fingers shaking so badly the wire frames bent a little against his cheek.

“We did what had to be done to protect your family’s good name,” he said.