The word hung between us like smoke. Not a heart attack. My legs felt hollow. “Then what?” I asked, though part of me already dreaded the answer. The caretaker glanced toward the cemetery gates, as if the dark had ears, then lowered his voice further. “He got sick fast. Too fast. Doctors called it his heart, but your father told me he’d started keeping copies of everything. Bank records. Company files. Things Serena thought she had destroyed.” He tapped the iron key in my palm.

“That door opens a private vault your father rented under a name only you would guess. He said you’d know it. He said you always solved his puzzles as a boy.” My throat tightened. Lake Harmon. The name we used for our secret fishing account when I was eleven. The caretaker straightened, eyes suddenly sharp. “But you should hurry, Nathan. Because you weren’t the only one your father told about the copies. Someone came looking last week.”