Charles threw open the desk drawers, dumping pens, receipts, and old stationery onto the rug.

Arthur stepped closer to me, shielding me from the mess they were making.

“Open the cylinder, Eleanor,” Arthur whispered.

I sat down on the edge of the leather sofa, my fingers trembling as I worked the metal cap.

The cap was tight, sealed with old wax that crumbled like dried leaves under my fingernails.

With a sharp twist, the seal broke.

I tilted the cylinder and slid the contents into my lap.

It was a single sheet of heavy parchment, yellowed at the edges.

I unrolled the paper, smoothing it flat against my thigh.

It was a hand-drawn map of the estate’s floor plan, sketched in Garrett’s precise handwriting.

My eyes traced the lines he had drawn forty years ago.

Right behind the spot where his grand oil portrait hung, he had drawn a tiny, square box.

I looked up from the paper to the portrait on the wall.

Garrett’s painted eyes seemed to look back at me, filled with the quiet secret he had kept.