The brass key was already in my hand when Grandfather closed my fingers over it, with the same grip he used on a jar lid that wouldn’t budge.

“Don’t give this to your mother,” he said. “Don’t give it to Marcus, either.”

His voice had gotten thinner since June. The room at Saint Luke’s smelled of fresh linen and the lemon drops he kept in the pocket of his bathrobe.

“Why would I hand a desk key to Marcus?” “Because he’ll ask nicely.” Grandfather let go of my hand and sank back into the pillow.

“He’s been moving money since spring.

Little pieces, so it doesn’t look like much. A man in a hospital bed still reads his own statements.”

I turned the key over. It was smaller than my thumbnail, made for a desk lock, worn smooth at the top. “Which desk is that?”

“Mine. The one that stays locked.” He watched me slip it into my coat pocket.

“You’re the only one of them who ever asks the second question.” I told him I’d put it on my ring with my house key and car key.

He shook his head against the pillow.