My heart pounded hard as I stared at the key in the receptionist's hand. Loud in my chest.
It looked exactly like the one Mrs. Cullen had shown me weeks ago, down to the tiny scratch near the top. Same scratch. Impossible.
She sat across from us at the conference table and placed it gently on the table. Clink.
"I'm not here to hurt you, Lara," she said softly, looking only at me. "I've waited twenty years to make sure this file reached the right person. Not Harrison. Not the press. Not the board. You. Only you."
I stared at her, confused, scared. "You're the voting trustee? Who are you really? Who are you?"
She didn't answer at first. She pulled a small gold locket from beneath her blouse, from under her shirt. She opened it. Inside were pictures of two young women smiling together, a
