Inside the oilcloth lay a steel box, heavy and cold, with a lock the size of my thumb. The brass key from my father’s envelope slid in as if it had been cut for it. Under the lid sat a stack of letters tied with twine, a worn leather ledger, and a small black notebook with my name on it. Frank had gone quiet by the door. “Read the notebook first,” he said. “Your father wrote it the week he died.” I opened it, and my own name looked back at me in his handwriting.

The first page read: Vanessa will come for this place the moment she learns what is under it. Do not let her. Then headlights swept across the kitchen window. A car door slammed outside, and a woman’s voice called my name. It was my sister, and she was not alone.