The wind rattled the windowpane behind us, letting in the sharp chill of the city night.

Charles turned the dial to the right, landing on ten.

He made one final turn to the left, stopping exactly on eighty-five.

A loud metal click echoed through the quiet office.

Charles pulled the heavy handle.

The thick iron door swung open with a dull creak.

Inside lay a single manila folder, thick and tied with a faded red string.

My hands shook as I reached into the dark safe and pulled the folder out.

The paper felt rough and cold against my fingertips.

I untied the string and opened the cover.

The very first page was an official document with a raised gold seal.

It was a certificate of death.

I gasped as my eyes found the name of the deceased.

Arthur Vance.

My father.

“This cannot be,” I said, my voice barely a whisper in the cold room.

“What is it, Emily?” Charles asked, leaning closer.

“It says my father died seven years ago,” I said. “But he disappeared ten years ago.”

I pointed to the bottom of the page.