“Please,” I said. “It’s an emergency.”

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

He sighed and pointed toward a carpeted hallway on the left.

“Down the hall, desk on the right,” he said.

I hurried past him.

A woman with silver hair sat behind a desk labeled *Vault Services*.

She looked at the key, then at my signature on the ledger.

“This box belonged to Eleanor Walsh,” she said softly.

“I am her daughter,” I said. “Here is my ID.”

She checked the card, nodded, and led me through a heavy steel gate into the vault room.

The room was lined with hundreds of small metal drawers.

She used her master key, then let me use mine.

The lock turned with a heavy, satisfying click.

She pulled out a long tin box and handed it to me.

“I will give you some privacy,” she said, stepping outside the gate.

I placed the box on a small metal table.

Inside was a thick manila envelope and a small black leather notebook.

My mother’s handwriting was on the cover of the notebook.