“I was at the bank, Tommy,” Dad said, his voice low and steady. “Your mother and I had a safe deposit box, and she made me promise to empty it before she died.” I stared at him. “Why would that take all night?” His grip tightened. “Because the box held something that would have broken this family, and she wanted me to decide whether you kids should ever see it.”

Dad reached into his vest and pulled out a small brass key, worn smooth. “I carried this for fifteen years,” he whispered. “My memory is going, and I am scared I will forget where I hid what was inside.” The elevator chimed behind us. A nurse stepped out, pale, and walked straight toward us. “Mr. Novak,” she said softly, “room 318 asked for you this morning.”