She glanced toward the front exit doors before she stepped closer to me.

“Years ago Mr.

Pendelton moved all those private congregation family matters into his metal archive cabinet,” she whispered.

She caught herself right there, her fingers flying up to her mouth.

“He told me those files got lost in a basement flood,” I said.

“That basement never flooded, Ona,” she said.

“Then where are the 1971 burial logs?” I asked.

“Mr.