To the left of the stationery slots was a small inner compartment, its tiny door flush with the dark wood. I reached for the brass pull, but it did not budge.
I knew my father’s habits. George never kept his keys in his pockets when he was home in his slippers, but he also never left them where my sister Rosie could find them.
I reached my hand behind the desk organizer, my fingers brushing the dusty ledge of the trim. My fingernail caught on a small, cold loop of metal.
The key was thin, no longer than a sewing needle, with a flat circular head. It slid into the keyhole with a dry, scraping sound that made me hold my breath.
I turned it to the right. The lock gave a soft click, and the small wooden door swung outward.
Inside lay a single document, folded in three, on heavy cream paper. I could see the blue ink of my father’s signature at the bottom of the last page, next to another signature in a rougher, larger hand.
A floorboard groaned in the hallway outside.
