I pulled the small brass key from my pocket and laid it on the polished wood counter.

Mr. Vance looked at the key, then up at my face, his expression softening with recognition.

“Ah, yes. Claire,” he said. “Your mother spoke of you often. Please, follow me.”

He unlocked a heavy steel gate and led me down a flight of concrete stairs into the basement.

The air down here was cool and smelled of old paper and floor wax.

We stopped in front of a massive steel vault door, its brass dials gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

Mr. Vance turned a heavy wheel, the deadbolts sliding back with a deep, metallic thud.

Inside the vault, rows of small chrome doors lined the walls from floor to ceiling.

He walked to the back corner, stopping at box number 114.

“I will need your key, and my master key,” he said.

We inserted both keys simultaneously, turning them until a heavy click echoed in the small space.

He slid the long, metal box out of its sleeve and carried it to a private viewing room nearby.