I reached down slowly and pulled the bundle from the hidden compartment. The oilcloth was thick, almost deliberately sealed against time. When I unwrapped it, the metal inside caught the dim light of the cabin lamp—a compact lockbox, military-grade, old but meticulously maintained. My fingers tightened around it before I even realized I was holding my breath.

There was no key on the outside, no obvious latch, only a small engraved plate on the underside: “Property of J. R. Hale — Classified Personal Holdings.” My father’s initials. My mind raced. I had seen him as Dad, not as someone who owned anything like this. I set it on the table, hands steady only because training refused to let them shake.

Hank’s words echoed in my head—the most valuable things are usually hidden where people laugh. I found a thin seam along the edge and used my knife again, carefully working until a soft click broke the silence. The lid opened.

Inside wasn’t money. It wasn’t jewelry. It was documents—deeds, transfer records, and military contracts tied to land, mineral rights, and a private trust stretching far beyond what Skylar’s penthouse could ever touch. And at the very bottom was a letter addressed to me: “Riley—if you’re reading this, it means they chose comfort over truth. Now choose differently.”