We got out of the sedan, the cold rain soaking my collar instantly.

Mara unlocked the heavy wooden door and pushed me inside.

The cabin smelled of damp pine, woodsmoke, and old paper.

She quickly closed the blinds and turned on a single, low-wattage desk lamp in the corner.

“Let’s see what he left you,” Mara said, wiping rainwater from her forehead.

I set the monitor down on the scratched wooden table in the center of the room.

I pressed the play button.

My father’s voice came through the tiny, tinny speaker, dry and raspy.

“Natalie, if you are watching this, the vault is compromised,” he said.

He paused, his eyes blinking rapidly in the harsh studio light of the recording.

“The truth is buried in the grave,” his voice continued, before the audio dissolved into loud, rushing static.

The screen went black, then looped back to the beginning of the clip.

“That’s it?” Mara asked, leaning over my shoulder. “Just a riddle about a grave?”

“No,” I said, rewinding the footage to the very start. “Look at his left hand.”