His eyes flashed with a sudden, dangerous heat.

“If I find out you’re hiding something, Claire, it won’t just be the foundation you lose.”

“Is that a threat?” I asked.

“It’s a reality check,” he said.

He turned on his heel and walked out of the study, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway.

I stood frozen, listening as he descended the stairs.

A moment later, the front door closed, the heavy latch clicking into place.

I walked quickly to the window, watching his dark sedan pull out of the gravel driveway.

The taillights disappeared into the wet Concord fog, leaving only the sound of the wind.

I let out a long breath, my knees trembling so hard I had to lean against the desk.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the brass key.

It was small, about two inches long, with an intricate clover-shaped bow and a tarnished shaft.

My mother had never mentioned a key to me, not even during her final days in the hospital.

I looked at the desk again.

It was a heavy, Victorian mahogany writing desk that had belonged to her grandfather.