Her small hand squeezed mine in agreement as we climbed the library steps.
Inside, the cavernous main hall buzzed with the quiet energy of evening patrons. Students hunched over laptops, elderly men reading newspapers, young professionals browsing new releases. We blended into this tableau of normaly. Just a grandmother and granddaughter visiting the library on a weekn night.
The history section occupied most of the third floor. Rows of shelves creating a labyrinth of knowledge spanning centuries and continents. I moved with purpose. Years of teaching history giving me an intuitive sense of where to look. American history, midenth century. There it would be.
“American Century by Evans,” I murmured, running my fingers along the spines until I found it. A thick volume with a faded dust jacket showing the iconic image of Times Square on VJ Day. My late husband James had indeed loved this book, keeping a copy in his study throughout our marriage.
Robert’s reference wasn’t random. He was using family knowledge as security, information that wouldn’t appear in any database mining of our personal details. I pulled the volume from the shelf and turned to page 187, my heart racing.
There, tucked between pages detailing the Marshall Plan, was a small envelope. I slipped it into my pocket without examining its contents, returned the book to its place, and guided Bettany toward the children’s section.
“Can we get some books, Grandma?” she asked as we passed colorful displays.
“Not today, sweetheart. We need to keep moving.” I softened the denial with a gentle squeeze of her shoulder. “But maybe you could choose one for me to tell you about later from memory.”
While Bettney deliberated between picture books displayed on a revolving rack, I found a quiet corner and quickly examined the envelope’s contents. Inside was a small key, old-fashioned, possibly for a safety deposit box, and another note in Robert’s handwriting.
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