Finally, it’s late enough in the morning that the bank ought to be open, so I head into town with the lockbox key in my pocket. The town is minuscule—a crossing of two local highways, with a gas station, a church, a bank, a post office, a bait and tackle shop, an army and navy surplus, a tiny supermarket, a general store, a couple cafes, a couple bars, and one sit-down restaurant a quarter mile outside town on a different little lake. I don’t even know the name of the town, as the address of the cabin is not the same as the nearby town. Doesn’t matter.

I head into the bank. The teller is an elderly woman with bouffant white hair, half-moon glasses, and a necklace made from chunky beads of red plastic.

She smiles maternally at me. “Hello, dear. I don’t recognize you, which means you must be new here.” She extends her hand, and I shake her hand gently; her fingers are tiny and cold and wrinkled. “I’m Mrs. Forniss.”

“Nathan Fischer,” I say, offering her a smile. “I am new. Just got in last night. One of those two cabins down on the lake, about fifteen minutes from here.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh. Oh my. I heard someone bought the old Rupinksy property. Glad of it, as we all are. The Rupinsky family partly founded this town, but when Michael passed away back in, oh, twenty-ten, twenty-eleven? The property went into the care of an estate run by some cousin out in California, I guess, and those beautiful cabins were left empty for years. There was talk about the man who bought it. He’s a writer, I heard. Is that you?”

I shake my head. “No, I’m a carpenter.”

“Oh, I see.” She’s clearly waiting for me to elaborate, but when I don’t, she clears her throat. “Well. What can I do for you, Nathan? Open an account?”

I set the key on the counter between us. “I’ve been told there’s a lockbox here in my name.”

She pushes away from the counter, stands up. “I’ll go look.”

She’s gone about five minutes or so, and returns with a lockbox. “Can I see your ID, please?” I show it to her, and she sets the box on the counter. “Would you like a private room?”

I shake my head. Unlock the lockbox. Within is a single paperback book.

The title is Redemption’s Song, by Adrian Bell.

Huh. That’s not a title I’ve ever seen. I pull out my phone and search; no book by that name by Adrian Bell exists.

I lift the book out—there’s nothing else. Just the book. Oh, wait…there’s another note on that legal pad paper, tucked into the first page.

I close the box, slide it toward the teller, smiling. “Thanks.”

“Will that be all, Mr. Fischer?”