“Quickly.”

I sat on the edge of the old mattress, trying not to make the springs squeak.

The music box felt heavy, far heavier than it should have.

I turned it over, examining the bottom.

The velvet backing on the base looked seamless.

I pressed my fingers along the edges, searching for a release.

“Let me,” Roman said, kneeling in front of me.

He took the box and pulled a small pocketknife from his trousers.

He slipped the thin blade under the edge of the velvet backing.

With a soft splintering sound, the false bottom popped loose.

A small brass key fell onto the dusty mattress between us.

It had a stamped number on the metal head: 304.

“A safety deposit key,” Roman said, picking it up.

“Is there a bank name?” I asked.

He held it up to the faint light from the window.

“The Second National Bank of Chicago,” he said.

“My father had a private box there,” I said. “He told me once it was for family heirlooms.”

“He lied,” Roman said, slipping the key into his pocket. “It’s where he hid the ledger.”