It came from an unregistered number.

“The brick behind the bronze urn is loose,” the message read.

I showed the screen to Lydia.

She squinted at the glowing pixels, then looked back at the surveyor’s map.

“The third niche,” Lydia said, pointing to the red circle on the paper.

“That is my grandfather’s niche,” I said.

Aunt Caroline looked up from her armchair, her face pale and damp with tears.

“What are you doing?” Caroline asked, her voice shaking.

“We have to go to the vault,” I said.

“Not in this weather,” Caroline said, gesturing toward the dark window where the rain beat against the glass.

“We cannot wait,” Lydia said.

I went to the closet in the hallway and pulled out two yellow slickers and a heavy flashlight.

The air outside was cold, smelling of wet cedar and mud.

Our boots sank into the soft grass as we climbed the path toward the north ridge.

The beam of my flashlight bounced off the wet trunks of the old oak trees.

Down the driveway, the red and blue lights of the police cruiser were fading into the distance.