Beneath it was a small iron lockbox, rusted but intact.

I grabbed the handle and lifted it out.

The lock was small, and my brass key was too large for it.

I looked around the room for something to use.

An old iron poker sat by the fireplace.

I took the poker and shoved the tip into the latch of the lockbox.

I leaned my weight into it, pressing down hard.

The rusted metal gave way with a sharp snap.

I opened the lid.

Inside lay a thick, leather-bound book with yellowed pages.

I lifted it out, the leather dry and cracking in my hands.

I opened the first page and shone my flashlight on the handwriting.

It was my grandmother’s elegant script.

*The Private Ledger of the Mercer Estate,* she had written.

Below that, a note: *For Clara, when the truth must be told.*

I turned the page, my eyes scanning the columns of numbers.

They were dates, amounts, and bank routing numbers.

Each entry was marked with a name: *Marcus.*

The withdrawals went back over a decade.

Tens of thousands of dollars, systematically drained from the family trust.