“Put the key away,” I said.

“We’re going to the library right now.”

The little study room on the second floor of the Oakridge Public Library smelled of dry heat and heavy newsprint.

Ethan laid a leather-bound navy journal on the scarred oak table between two tall stacks of reference books.

I lifted the cover and turned to the first page.

My grandfather’s tight, careful handwriting filled the cream-colored lines, listing four separate master trust accounts held at Oakridge First National Bank.

“Go to the last three pages,” Ethan said, standing right next to my chair.