My fingers found the cold iron handle of the heavy steel lockbox I’d buried there twelve years ago, before the mansion went up and before I’d ever met Tiffany.

I lifted the box out, set it on the workbench, and wiped a coat of gray grit off the lid with my sleeve.

I took the brass key out of my front pocket and slid it into the keyhole.

The lock turned with a heavy metallic clink.

I lifted the iron lid.

Inside, wrapped in thick oilcloth, were sixteen neat bundles of green paper from my old collection days, back when drivers paid cash at the gravel pits.

I took the top bundle and ran my thumb down the crisp edges under the glow of a single forty-watt bulb hanging overhead.