“That draft stays on your desk, Arthur,” I said.

By half past seven that evening, the rectory study smelled of old paper, cardboard boxes, and cold coffee.

Boxes from the 1979 church archives were stacked three high next to my oak desk, the brown masking tape on their seals cracked with age.

Wade sat across from me, his tablet plugged into a wall outlet while he checked old tax filings against the bound church ledgers.

“Look at this entry on page twenty-two,” Wade said, aiming his pen at a yellowed sheet in the 1979 financial register.