“He doesn’t know what you’re holding,” Margaret said, tucking her chin against the blanket.

“And he doesn’t know who controls the land trust now.”

I slipped the sealed brown envelope deep into the inside breast pocket of my suit coat.

“Get some rest,” I told her, tucking the edge of the blue shawl around her shoulders.

“Go clean out your desk, Pastor,” she murmured, shutting her eyes.

“Give Arthur his show.”

I left the hospital at five and walked down the gravel path to the rectory study behind the sanctuary.

The study smelled of old paper, worn leather bindings, and lemon-oil furniture polish.