“I need to get into safe deposit box three forty-seven,” I said, holding out my state ID card and the little brass key Arthur Vance had handed me three years earlier when Harold died.

The teller compared my signature with a yellow index card from a metal file drawer, then nodded toward the heavy iron gate.

“Come with me, Mrs.

Briggs,” she said, unlocking the inner grille with a long silver key.

The vault room was cold and hushed, lined floor to ceiling with hundreds of polished steel drawer fronts.

The woman slid her master key into the upper keyhole of box three forty-seven, gave it a quarter turn to the left, and took two steps back with her hands clasped behind her.

“Please put your key in the bottom lock,” she said.