I drove straight back to the farmhouse.

The house was empty and quiet at noon.

I went upstairs to Mark’s small study, reached into the back of his wardrobe, and pulled down the dark gray steel box.

The tiny brass key turned smoothly in the lock.

Inside were three neat stacks of paper held together with red rubber bands.

I snapped off the first band and spread everything out across the blotter.

They were original merchant printouts, duplicate register slips, and hotel reservation confirmation letters matching every single charge date on my credit card statement.