“You merely inherited a machine.

And now, I own it.”

As Detective Miller dragged him kicking and screaming down the center aisle, past the horrified stares of the people he’d spent years manipulating, Celeste suddenly broke.

She lunged toward the side aisle, desperately trying to slip past the pews, her veil torn, her pristine image shattered.

But the uniformed officers at the door caught her by the arms.

“Celeste Marrow,” the taller officer stated, producing his own cuffs.

“You’re coming with us as an accessory to murder, and conspiracy to commit corporate fraud.”