The choir was practicing. The sanctuary was empty, except for the children at the altar, the organist, and the conductor. Their small voices rose to the top of the vaulted ceiling, then fell back down to where she stood as though angels from above had joined in the chorus. Beatrice slid into a pew in the back and rubbed her cold hands together. She gazed up at the enormous wood carving of Christ on the cross hanging over the kids. She warmed her hands, not opening the bag Gladys had given her for as long as she could.

It was just a plain bag, but it was the last trace of Doris she would ever see again. Beatrice clutched it on her lap. Nothing inside it would be worth risking another visit to the ICU. Max’s warning was still scribbled on a mirror three blocks away. She couldn’t go back. With a heavy sigh, she finally pulled the zipper open.

There were cigarettes, a lighter, cold medicine, and a small makeup bag. Beatrice let her hands wander over each item as tears filled the corners of her eyes. It all smelled like Doris. The makeup bag was empty except for a worn tube of ChapStick and dental floss. Down at the bottom, under the makeup and cigarettes, there was something else.

Beatrice squinted at whatever it was, glittering up at her. She grasped it between her fingers and lifted it from the tobacco crumbs in the bottom of the bag. It was a diamond necklace. What? She sucked in a gasp, then pulled the necklace, a diamond ring, and diamond earrings out of the bag one by one in disbelief. They sparkled like Christmas lights in the shadow of the pew. The choir started another hymn as she gaped at the gemstones in her hands.

Beatrice dug back into the bag, hoping it might contain an explanation, but there was none. Her mind flew to the journal she had found in her aunt’s safe deposit box, and she frantically snatched it out of her purse. Turning to the last page, Beatrice read, “11/22/78, 889, diamond ring, necklace, earrings.”

She read the words again and dropped the book onto the bench next to her. Beatrice pictured her aunt in her orthopedic shoes and hairnet chatting with Shirley behind the deposits desk week after week. Shirley would have smiled at Doris sympathetically as she complained about the diner. They had been friends. Shirley said so herself. The guard in the vault, the monitoring of the keys, they were all new security measures that Shirley resented. They had once been Shirley’s keys. They had once been Doris’s keys. Beatrice stared at the pile of diamonds in her lap.

Doris couldn’t have just opened the boxes of strangers. There were procedures. Beatrice remembered them well from the day she’d opened Box 547. Blinking at the jewelry, she also remembered how Shirley had bent the rules once she’d heard her aunt’s name. The diamonds in her lap glimmered with the undeniable truth. Somehow Doris had done it. Week after week she had gone into the vault and opened boxes. It still wasn’t possible. Even if Shirley did look the other way or go on break or just hand Doris the keys, how did Doris unlock them all?

Oh God. Max’s secret key. Blood drained from her face. She grabbed her purse off the floor and rifled through it until she found the key. Shirley had told her that there had once been a master key, and it had been stolen. And there it was in the palm of her hand.

The repossession notices stuffed in Doris’s drawer with Bill’s sappy love letters began to make sense. They had been mailed to bank customers who were late with their payments. Max had investigated notices just like them and found out that the state had no records of any of the threatened repossessions. Bill hadn’t turned the contents of delinquent boxes over to the state at all. That left only one conclusion.

Doris had stolen it all. She was the inside man.

The key fell to her lap. Her hands flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Diamonds, cash, savings bonds—she didn’t want to believe it, but the records didn’t lie. Doris had spent years stealing the precious belongings of complete strangers. Beatrice’s eyes flooded.

She grabbed the journal. The first robbery occurred over sixteen years ago. Why Doris? She flipped through the handwritten pages. It all must be Doris’s writing, she realized. Sheet after sheet went by, until Rhonda Whitmore’s name leapt off the page. The woman had come to the bank to protest a repossession. A few days later she was hit by a car.

No. A sob caught in her throat. Her aunt couldn’t have had anything to do with Rhonda’s death. Doris lived in a gutter apartment in a depressed ghetto. She didn’t have money. Her eyes fell down to the mink from her aunt’s closet, now wrapped around her shoulders, but it hadn’t been worn in years. What had Doris done with the spoils? Was Bill still promising they would run away to the Tropics together? Why hadn’t she spent any of it? Was she hoarding it all for the day when she’d leave town for good? The diamonds were heavy in her lap, and down Mayfield Road, Doris lay withering in her hospital bed. A lot of good they would do her now.

Her shaking hands gathered the evidence and stuffed it all back into the zippered bag. Beatrice wiped her tears bitterly. Doris had robbed those poor people. Doris was a thief and a liar. Her mother had warned Beatrice not to trust her aunt years ago, but she hadn’t wanted to believe it. She still didn’t want to believe it. Doris had taken her in. She’d given her a place to live. She’d helped her get a job.

Her thoughts ground to a halt. Doris had sent her to Bill at the bank. Was she hoping that Beatrice would play some sort of role in their sick game? Had Doris sent her to Max as well? Max had the master key. Did that mean Max knew about the robberies all along? Beatrice squeezed her aunt’s bag until her knuckles were white.

Get out. The words repeated in her head as her heart hung heavily in her chest. She was holding a small fortune in her hands. The diamonds would get her at least a thousand dollars, even if they were stolen. It would be enough to leave town and start over.

A hand fell gently onto her shoulder. Beatrice let out a yelp. The choir stopped singing.

“Oh, I’m sorry I startled you, miss.” The old priest behind her chuckled. He waved up to the conductor. The children started over, and then he leaned down and spoke softly. “Are you all right?”

Beatrice wiped smeared mascara from her cheeks and nodded.

“The holidays can be a very difficult time of year for many people, I know.” He patted her shoulder. “But the sanctuary is closed for rehearsals. You’re welcome to come back tomorrow evening.”

Beatrice managed a weak smile. “I’m sorry, Father.”

She stood up and followed him back to the rear entrance of the church. Shame washed over her. Her aunt had robbed widows and children, and Beatrice had just contemplated doing the same thing. Selling the stolen diamonds would make her no different than Doris.

She paused at the door and noticed a box marked “Donations” on a large table filled with small red candles. “Excuse me, Father?”

“Yes, my child?”

“Why are there so many candles?” She pointed to the red votives.

“They’re to remember the ones we’ve lost and the ones we still pray for.” He motioned to a small altar tucked in the back of the sanctuary. Three large candle stands were covered in melted wax like dried red tears. “Feel free to make a donation if you’d like to remember someone tonight.”

He left her alone with the candles and the donation box. An old padlock hung open from the latch of the box, its one arm welcoming the world, trusting all, and refusing none. She touched the open lock. If only this were the way of the world. Beatrice picked up a candle and held it, then gazed back at the altar and the children. A little slip of paper was glued to the bottom. It was a prayer.

 Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.