The room beyond was small.
Metal shelves filled every wall.
Programs.
Photographs.
Ledgers.
Boxes.
Harlan crossed to a steel cabinet.
From the bottom drawer, he removed a wooden case about the size of a shoebox.
My name was not on it.
My mother’s was.
JUNE CALLAWAY.
Below that:
OR HER HEIR.
My heart started pounding.
Harlan placed the box on the table.
“I haven’t opened it.”
“You could have.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“It wasn’t mine.”
Sometimes the simplest answers are the hardest ones to distrust.
I ran my fingers over the brass latch.
Locked.
“I don’t have a key.”
Mara frowned.
“Eleanor’s instructions said June had it.”
“My mother never gave me any key.”
Harlan looked at the lock.
“Then we can have a locksmith—”
I froze.
A memory surfaced.
Not a useful one.
A ridiculous one.
Mom’s sewing tin.
She had kept buttons, bent needles, old receipts, two subway tokens from New York, and a small brass key that didn’t fit anything in our apartment.
