I slipped down the stone steps into the pitch black of the basement and pulled the door shut behind me.

The air inside was cool and smelled of damp mortar, coal dust, and aged paper.

I switched my flashlight on, keeping the beam pointed strictly at the concrete floor.

The basement was divided into three rooms, and the far one contained Eleanor’s old archives.

I walked past rows of empty preserve jars and discarded wicker furniture.

In the corner of the utility room stood the heavy green filing cabinets where Eleanor kept the historical records of Blackthorn Ridge.

I reached the cabinet and tugged at the top drawer.

It was locked.

I searched the top of the cabinet, feeling along the dusty metal until my fingers brushed against a small tin aspirin box.

Inside the box was the spare key, just as Eleanor had told me years ago.

I unlocked the drawer and pulled it open.

The folders were thick and yellowed, arranged by decade.

I found the folder labeled *Trust Agreements – 1972* and pulled it out.