It was a wall safe, no larger than a breadbox.

The metal was cold to the touch, smelling of old grease and iron filings.

I ran my fingers across the door.

There was no dial, no combination lock.

In the center of the gray metal was a single, small keyhole, shaped like a miniature clover.

My breath caught in my throat.

The safe was locked, and the keyhole was empty.

“What are you doing?”

The voice sliced through the silence of the room.

I spun around, my back slamming against the open frame of the portrait.

Charles stood in the doorway, his tie loosened, his face pale and slick with sweat.

Behind him, Victoria sneered, her eyes wide as she took in the open painting and the iron safe.

“So that’s where he hid it,” Victoria whispered, her voice dropping to a dangerous, quiet register.

She pushed past Charles and strode into the room, her gaze fixed on the gray iron box.

“Where is the key, Eleanor?” she demanded.

“I don’t know,” I said, keeping my voice level despite the trembling in my knees.