It was a heavy brass key, three inches long, with deep black block numbers stamped across the bow.

The same number, 408.

Under the numbers, the words First National Bank had been cut into the metal.

“Sarah?” Zane called out from the kitchen.

I jammed the brass key deep into my cardigan pocket and pulled my hands back out into the open.

“I was just fixing your coat,” I said, stepping into the doorway.

“It was sliding off the peg.”

Zane was standing by the table with a glass of water halfway to his lips.