The brass turned with a stiff, metallic click.

I lifted the lid.

The smell of old paper and ink drifted up, stronger now.

Inside lay three thick, leather-bound journals and a stack of manila folders secured with thick rubber bands.

I pulled the first journal out and opened it.

My father’s neat, block handwriting filled the pages.

“These are his personal ledgers,” I said, shining my flashlight on the columns of numbers. “He kept a record of every asset in the family trust.”

Voss reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pair of reading glasses.

He picked up one of the manila folders and slipped off the rubber band.

“Look at these dates,” Voss said, pointing a finger at a bank statement. “These go back five years.”

I leaned closer, looking over his shoulder.

The documents were official bank records from the Texas desert land trusts.

“These are the properties Dorian tried to sell last month,” I said.

“Yes,” Voss said. “But look at the signatures on the transfer authorization forms.”

I took the paper from his hand.