At the front of the altar, Mr. Halden, Emma’s attorney, stepped out from the heavy shadow of the pulpit.

He was a thin, severe man with silver hair, a demeanor as dry and unyielding as ancient parchment.

Gripped tightly in his liver-spotted hands was a thick ivory envelope with Emma’s looping handwriting scrawled across the front.

Evan’s manufactured smile instantly sharpened into a scowl of irritation.

“Is this theatricality really necessary right now, Arthur?” Evan demanded, his voice echoing too loudly off the vaulted ceiling.

“My wife hasn’t even been put in the ground.”

Mr. Halden did not flinch. He slowly, deliberately pushed his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose.