The Le Corbusier is what I look for first, running a finger down the spines on the bottom shelf until I find the right one, bloodred with golden lettering. I pull it out and flip it open on the floor.

Paul’s neat handwriting is on the inside flap. “AIA Design & Honor Awards, Atlanta, GA 30319.”

I leave it on the carpet and step to the far shelf, to the row of hardback novels at eye level, moving them into neat piles on the floor. Not the most clever place for a safe, maybe, but Paul always jokes that thieves would be sorely disappointed in the contents anyway—a couple thousand bucks if they’re lucky, but no real valuables.

He told me in case I needed money, but I happen to know that cash is not the only item in here. Important papers and documents—that’s what I’m here for.

I tap in the zip code on the digital pad, tug on the handle, and the lock slides open with a metallic thunk.

In the dim study light, I survey the contents: a gun, a box of bullets, a neat pile of papers and files a few inches thick, stacks of crisp bills held together with green rubber bands, and a small red box, the kind that contains jewelry. I peek inside and find two matching gold bands—one hers and the other his—then shove it to the back of the safe with the cash. I pull out the paper files and carry everything over to the desk.

I flip on the desk light and start at the top, moving through the files one by one. The first is marked Personal, and its contents are exactly what you’d expect: Paul’s birth certificate, Katherine’s death certificate, a copy of our prenup and Paul’s last will and testament, updated to list me as sole beneficiary this past March. I close the file and move on.

The rest of the files are filled with property deeds, grouped together according to their location. For years now, Paul has been buying up lots under PJK Real Estate Investments, LLC, clusters of individual properties that, grouped together, make up a subdivision. It’s a brilliant strategy, one that with minimal investment—a paved road, a fancy sign and a big iron gate at the entrance—more than doubles the value of a lakeside lot. If you’re the investor, all you need is patience and a butt-ton of money. Apparently, Paul has both.

My fingers pause on a file labeled Pitts Cove.