Carefully, he wedged the blade into a seam along the wooden frame of the paneling.

A small wooden door popped open with a dry snap.

Inside the recess lay a thick, leather-bound ledger.

It was bound in dark green calfskin, scuffed at the corners from years of handling.

“This is it,” I whispered.

Julian took it out, his fingers tracing the gold-embossed initials on the cover.

They were not my grandmother’s initials.

The letters *M.C.* were faded but still legible.

“Marjorie’s initials,” Julian said. “Why would your grandmother have Marjorie’s personal ledger?”

“Maybe she took it to protect herself,” I said. “Or to keep Marjorie from destroying it.”

We sat down at the heavy desk, Julian angling the flashlight down onto the open pages.

The first page was dated thirty years ago.

The handwriting was neat, sharp, and instantly recognizable as Marjorie’s.

“Look at these transactions,” Julian said, his finger moving down a column of numbers.

There were dates, bank names, and incredibly large sums of money.

Next to each sum was a single name: *Arthur*.