We climbed the narrow back staircase, the wood groaning slightly under our weight.

At the top of the stairs, the air felt noticeably colder.

We reached my grandmother’s private study, the brass plaque on the door still reading *E. C. Caldwell*.

I turned the knob and we stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind us.

The room smelled of old paper, leather, and cedar.

“Where would she keep the private records?” Julian asked, his flashlight sweeping over the mahogany desk.

“She had a safe behind the portrait of the harbor,” I said, pointing to the wall.

I walked over to the oil painting and swung it open on its hinges.

There was no wall safe behind it, only solid plaster.

“That is strange,” I muttered, my brow furrowing as I touched the wall.

“Could she have moved it?” Julian asked, shining the light closer.

“No, she told me it was here.”

I tapped the plaster with my knuckles, hearing a dull, hollow sound.

“There is a cavity behind this molding,” Julian observed.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pocketknife.