“The old paper ledger,” I muttered, remembering the thick, blue binders.

“Yes,” Dina said. “I found the entry for the Elmwood Terrace property.”

“There is a hand-written sequence in the margin, dated three years ago.”

“Read it to me,” I said, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“It says ‘Whitaker Master,’ followed by zero, nine, one, two, seven, four,” she said.

I looked down at the glowing red light of the keypad.

“Zero, nine, one, two, seven, four,” I repeated.

“Try it, Emma. I’ll stay on the line.”

I positioned my index finger over the dusty rubber buttons.

The cold air of the closet seemed to freeze the sweat on the back of my neck.

I pressed the zero.

A sharp, high-pitched beep echoed through the empty bedroom.

I pressed the nine, then the one, then the two.

My finger hovered over the seven, trembling slightly.

I pressed seven, then four, and finally the pound key.

For a second, nothing happened.

Then, a mechanical click sounded from deep within the steel box.

The red light turned a solid, steady green.

“It worked,” I whispered.