We descended the stairs, leaving the noise of the main lobby behind.

The air down here was cooler, quiet, and smelled of wax.

A heavy steel gate barred the entrance to the vault area.

An elderly clerk sat behind a glass partition, reading a newspaper.

He looked up as we approached.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice thin.

“I need to access box 408,” I said.

I pulled the brass key from my pocket and showed it to him through the slot.

He looked at the key, then at a logbook on his desk.

“Name?” he asked.

“Lena Whitmore,” I said, using my maiden name.

He flipped through several pages, his finger tracing a column of names.

“Ah, yes. The Whitmore account.”

“You will need to sign the log, and I will need identification.”

I handed him my driver’s license.

My hand was shaking slightly, but I kept my breathing steady.

Behind me, Elias stood close, his eyes darting toward the security cameras in the corners of the ceiling.

The clerk buzzed the gate open.