My grandmother had worked at a diner most of her life.
She clipped coupons.
Sewed her own curtains.
Reused tea bags.
Nothing about her suggested hidden vaults.
“Why would police care about a safe deposit box?” I whispered.
The detective slid a file across the table slowly.
Inside were old newspaper clippings.
One headline immediately froze my blood:
CHICAGO FINANCIER DISAPPEARS WITH $18 MILLION.
Another:
THREE MEN FOUND DEAD IN WAREHOUSE FIRE.
Then another:
WITNESS VANISHES BEFORE FEDERAL TESTIMONY.
My fingers shook turning the pages.
At the center of one article was a grainy black-and-white photograph of a young woman entering a courthouse.
Even through the poor image quality, I recognized her instantly.
My grandmother.
Thirty years younger.
Different hair.
Different name.
But unmistakably her.
I looked up slowly.
“That’s Eleanor,” I whispered.
Detective Alvarez nodded.
“No,” he said carefully.
“That woman’s name was Margaret Greene.”
The world seemed to drop beneath me.
