I walked over to Emma and gently took the key from her hand.

It felt cold, heavy, and slightly greasy with age.

“Where does it go, sweetie?” I asked, looking around the metal-walled room.

“Under the picture,” Emma said, pointing a tiny finger toward the back wall.

On the far wall hung a framed charcoal sketch of the Aspen valley, drawn by Claire years ago.

Nathan bypassed the computer terminal and rushed over to the frame.

He took the heavy wooden frame off its hook and set it carefully on the floor.

Behind it, set flush into the reinforced concrete wall, was a small, black steel door.

There was no digital keypad on this lock, only a physical keyhole shaped like a double prong.

“I didn’t even know this was here,” Nathan muttered, his fingers tracing the edge of the steel.

“Claire had this room built before she got sick,” I reminded him.

“She knew she couldn’t trust the network if things went wrong.”

The saw outside paused for a second, replaced by the heavy thud of a boot kicking the door frame.