Claire rifled through each one, her pulse ticking like a clock in her throat. In the second-to-last bag, beneath a stack of warped vinyl records and an old jacket, she found it. The third key. It was the smallest of the three—brass, slightly tarnished, tied with the same deep red ribbon.
Claire held it up to the flickering cellar light, feeling the weight of the moment settle on her shoulders. Her fingers curled tight around the set as she turned back to the safe. The first key turned easily again. So did the second. Then came the third. Click.