“She’s at peace, Pastor,” Helen said gently.

The hospital clock on the wall above the doorway read six minutes after six.

By eleven that morning, the churchyard had gone completely still after the private committal service at the graveside.

A damp wind blew down off the north ridge, rattling dry oak leaves over the stone steps.

Wade stood next to me by the sanctuary doors, holding the sealed brown envelope Margaret had given me on Saturday.

The heavy paper was worn at the edges, and a crack ran down the dark red wax seal on the flap.