“That’s what he wanted you to think,” I said.

I pulled the black keycard from my pocket and held it up.

Nathan stared at the card, his eyes widening.

“Where did you get that?”

“Mr. Hayes,” I said. “He told me there is a private vault.”

“Behind the wine cellar.”

Nathan’s jaw tightened.

He did not ask any more questions.

He grabbed a heavy flashlight from the desk drawer and flicked it on.

“Come on,” he said.

We hurried back out into the hallway and headed toward the door that led to the basement stairs.

The wooden stairs creaked under our weight as we descended into the damp, cool air below the house.

The beam of Nathan’s flashlight bounced off the rough stone walls.

At the bottom of the stairs, the air smelled of earth and aged oak.

We passed the rows of dusty wine bottles, their glass surfaces reflecting the light of the flashlight.

At the very back of the cellar, the stone wall seemed to end in a dead end.

But as we got closer, I noticed a seam in the masonry.