The vestry of the chapel still smells of lilies, and the door to the nave is shut, and Whitby Dorngaard is standing in the middle of it with his jacket over his arm and a silver ring in his fist.
He has been waiting for you to come in here. He has clearly rehearsed something and is clearly not going to use it.
"You don't have to say anything."
He turns the ring over once, and puts it on the table between you.
"I came back with a speech. I have had seven years to write it. It's not very good, so I'm going to say the small version instead."
He looks up.
"Fordham called me nine days ago. After he called the Bureau, not before. He told me where you were getting married and what time, and then he asked me not to come."
He taps the table once.
"I'm here because I did not trust that he would tell you the truth, and I am telling you now so that you know which of us made that decision."
He pushes his sleeve back and sets his forearm on the table, inked and steady.
"Ask me anything you want while the church is dark and nobody is listening."