I parked the car near the front steps and ran through the downpour to the door.

The heavy key turned smoothly in the lock.

Inside, the house was silent and cold.

The smell of old wood and lavender polish filled the air.

I did not turn on the chandelier in the foyer.

I used the flashlight on my phone to guide me down the long, carpeted hallway to the west wing.

I pushed open the heavy oak door to my late father’s study.

The room remained exactly as he had left it.

The massive leather chairs, the walls lined with gold-lettered books, the heavy mahogany desk.

I walked behind the desk.

The oil portrait of my grandfather stared down at me with cold, painted eyes.

I reached behind the gilded frame and found the latch.

The painting swung forward on its brass hinges.

Behind it, set deep into the stone wall, was the black digital safe.

I stared at the keypad.

My father had changed the code regularly, but toward the end of his life, his memory had begun to fail.