“He didn’t trust banks,” I said. “He didn’t even trust his own office in the city.”

I looked out the window at the passing streetlights, their yellow glare reflecting in the wet puddles.

A sudden memory came back to me, clear and sharp.

“My childhood bedroom,” I said.

Roman glanced at me, his eyebrows drawing together.

“What about it?” he asked.

“He gave me a music box,” I said. “A week before he went into hiding.”

“A music box?” Roman asked.

“Yes,” I said. “He insisted I keep it with me, but I forgot it when I had to leave the house in a hurry.”

I remembered the heavy weight of the dark mahogany box.

“He told me never to let anyone else touch it,” I said. “He was so intense about it.”

“Your father was never a sentimental man, Lena,” Roman said, his voice quiet.

“Exactly,” I said. “And my mother died when I was very young, so he had no reason to keep her old things unless they served a purpose.”

Roman slowed the SUV down at a red light.