The lawyer slides a worn brass key and a deed across the table. Mara stares. Her father owned a storefront she'd never heard of. Inside, the air is dry and still. Two filing cabinets, both locked. The first opens with the key: forty years of plain, honest invoices. The second won't budge. She bends a hairpin and works the lock until it clicks. One thing sits inside — a single black book. She opens it. Page after page of names, none of them her father's.

Mara doesn't read another word. She shoves the black book into her bag, locks both cabinets, and heads for the door. But a man in a gray coat is already standing on the sidewalk outside, watching the storefront. He smiles and lifts one hand in a small wave, like he's been expecting her.

Mara walks straight up to the gray-coated man instead of running. "Who are you?" she demands. He tips his head toward the shop. "I'm the last name in that book your father didn't finish. He promised me a new life before he died." He looks desperate, not dangerous. "Please. You're the only one who can keep his promise."