I didn’t take the envelope. I told Conrad Hale to leave my property, and I watched his taillights disappear down the gravel road before I let myself breathe. I didn’t sleep again that night. I sat on the cot with the pry bar across my knees, listening to the rain and thinking about the only person who could have told him.

Walter Prescott arrived at seven the next morning, a full day early, carrying a cardboard box of yellowed survey files. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. Before I could accuse him, he admitted it himself. He had called Conrad. Then he opened the box and laid out a 1968 drawing showing a concrete room hidden behind the shed. Finally he pointed at the scratches and said quietly, “The person who made those marks is still alive. And she’s been waiting fifty-eight years for someone to find this door.”