My mother’s heavy black iron floor safe, which had been in the back master closet since 1984, was sitting in the middle of the bare floor.

Lauren was standing by the open closet door with gray iron grime on her hands.

Beside her was Frank Vance, a forty-six-year-old real estate developer who owned a number of commercial buildings down on Main Street.

They were inching the safe toward the door three inches at a time, using a short wooden crate as a lever against the oak floor.

“What are you two doing with Mom’s safe?” I asked.