After studying both of us, she gave a resigned sigh.
“All right. But quietly.”
We crossed the yard to Dad’s old workshop, where I’d grown up among cedar, varnish, coffee and summer heat. He’d made tables, shelving, church pews, rocking chairs and a walnut desk for a judge who paid double. Derek and I earned pocket money sweeping. Now he took only occasional commissions. Moonlight entered dusty windows; his tools still hung in place. He led me to the longest bench. ChooseFurniture
“Help me move this.”
We dragged the unexpectedly heavy workbench from the wall. A narrow panel emerged behind it. Dad pressed its corner, revealing a concealed iron lock. I stared in disbelief.
“You built a hidden compartment?”
“Your grandfather did.”
Dad worked the rusty key in the concealed lock until it turned. Inside was a wooden box, not of treasure but of documents, letters, a ledger, sealed envelopes
