The Wilmington Trust occupied a limestone building that had stood for over a century. It was the kind of place that smelled of old money and older secrets—polished brass, worn marble, the faint mustiness of documents that had not seen sunlight in decades. Vivian pushed through the heavy brass doors and approached the vault attendant, a young man with kind eyes and a practiced smile that faltered slightly when he saw the key she placed on the counter.
"I need to access a lockbox," she said, sliding Reinhart's key across the polished wood. "Number 447."
The attendant picked up the key, turning it over in his fingers as if confirming it was real. Then he typed something into his terminal, his brow furrowing. When he looked up, his smile had disappeared entirely.
"Ma'am, this box was marked
