Inside, the space was cluttered with old furniture, cardboard boxes, and plastic bins.

Sitting on a folding table in the center was a large, dark wooden chest.

It was made of solid cherry wood, bearing the Langley family crest engraved on the lid.

The brass lock on the front was splintered, the wood around it white and freshly gouged.

“That’s my father’s chest,” I whispered.

An investigator in latex gloves carefully lifted the lid.

Inside were thick manila folders, leather-bound ledgers, and old deeds.

These were Everett Langley’s original estate records, the physical proof of everything Grant had tried to steal.

The investigator looked at me, then at the General.

“We need to log these as evidence, but we can inventory them here first,” the investigator said.

I stepped closer, the cold air stinging my lungs.

I reached out and touched the smooth, cold wood of the chest.

The smell of cedar and aged paper drifted up from the open lid.

These papers represented three generations of my family’s hard work.

They were the foundation of the trust meant for Evelyn.