Inside lay a small brass key and a single page in Harold’s careful handwriting. Beatrice read it twice, her tea gone cold beside her. “Box 214, Lakeshore Trust Bank. Go alone, and tell no one, not even Mr. Brandt. Everything you gave me is waiting there.” Her hands shook. For forty-two years, Harold had never kept a secret from her. Or so she had believed.

She barely slept. At nine the next morning, a banker named Mr. Okafor led her down a marble staircase to a steel door. The key turned smoothly. Inside box 214 sat a leather folder stamped with a company seal she had never seen. As she lifted the cover, footsteps echoed behind her. Her older son, Julian, stood in the vault doorway, breathing hard, his eyes fixed on the folder. “Mom,” he said, “put that down. You have no idea what you’re holding.”