At six in the morning, the sky was a dull, bruised gray.

I dressed quietly in dark trousers and a wool coat, slipping the brass key into my glove.

The floorboards of Hartwell House creaked as I crept down the back stairs, avoiding the kitchen where Patricia usually had her morning tea.

The air outside was freezing, biting at my cheeks as I started my car and drove down the long, gravel driveway.

The county bank on Main Street was a solemn, red-brick building with tall arched windows.

I sat in my car for twenty minutes, watching the teller flip the sign on the heavy glass door from ‘Closed’ to ‘Open.’

My hands were shaking as I pushed the door open, the brass bell above it chiming in the quiet lobby.

An elderly man in a gray suit stood behind the counter, his name tag reading *Mr. Vance*.

“Good morning,” he said, offering a polite, practiced smile. “How can I help you today?”

“I need to access a safety deposit box,” I said, my voice firmer than I felt. “It belonged to my mother, Eleanor Hartwell.”