The top drawer held only pens, paperclips, and a stack of old shipping manifests.

The bottom drawer was locked.

“Calvin, do you have the key for this?” I asked.

He walked over, shaking his head.

“Elliot kept that one on his personal ring. The one the hospital took.”

“I don’t have time to wait for the estate lawyers to release his personal effects,” I said.

“Step back,” Calvin said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a heavy brass utility tool.

He wedged the flat metal edge into the gap between the drawer and the desk frame, applying steady pressure.

The wood groaned, then splintered with a sharp crack as the lock gave way.

I pulled the drawer open.

Inside was a small metal lockbox, a manila folder, and an old, faded photograph of me as a child.

I picked up the folder first, opening it under the desk lamp.

It contained a list of private cell phone numbers, each hand-written in Elliot’s precise script.

Next to Marcus Sterling’s name, Elliot had written: *Do not trust. Will sell his share to the highest bidder.*