My grandfather, Everett Langley, had been a meticulous man.

He kept the original wet-ink signatures of his land grants and trust foundations in that box.

“Where is the box now?” I asked.

“He has a storage unit,” Brielle said, reaching into her pocket again.

She pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and laid it on the bedside table.

“It’s in Alexandria, near the old railyard.”

“He keeps all his stolen documents there,” she added.

“Why are you telling me this, Brielle?” I asked, watching her closely.

She looked at the empty space on her ring finger.

“Because he ruined my life too,” she said quietly.

“The police came to my office today. I could lose my license.”

“And because I saw your baby’s bassinet through the window,” she added, her voice cracking.

“Nobody should have their child’s future stolen by a man like him.”

I looked at the crumpled paper on the table.

The address was written in Grant’s messy, looping handwriting.

“Thank you,” I said softly.

She gave a small, sad nod and turned toward the door.