THE CADILLAC AT FOUR O'CLOCK

The rain was coming down in sheets now, drowning the city in a dark, watery shroud as Thomas's blue sedan pulled into the alleyway behind the diner. It was 8:30 PM. The diner was closed, its red neon sign buzzing weakly against the storm.

Thomas cut the engine and headlights, letting the car coast silently to a stop beside the large industrial dumpsters.

"Stay in the car," Thomas instructed, checking his SIG Sauer one last time.

"No," Clara said firmly, her jaw set with a newfound strength. "I know what my father's handwriting looks like. I know the encryption key he used. You need me."

Thomas stared at her for a moment, seeing the spirit of her father—and perhaps a shadow of his own daughter—shining through her eyes. He nodded once. "Alright. Stick close to me. If I tell you to drop, you drop."

They crept out of the car, using the shadows of the alleyway to reach the rear kitchen door. Thomas pulled the snub-nosed revolver he had taken from Arthur and used the butt to shatter the small glass pane beside the door handle. Reaching through, he unlocked the door from the inside and pushed it open.

The kitchen was dark and cavernous, smelling of cold fry grease and stale bleach. Rain lashed against the roof above, creating a deafening roar that masked their footsteps.

Thomas led Clara past the stainless-steel prep tables toward a heavy wooden door tucked behind the walk-in freezer. A brass padlock hung from the latch, but it was already unlocked—Arthur had left it open during his earlier search.

Thomas pulled the door open, revealing a steep flight of wooden stairs descending into the blackness below.

He pulled a small tactical flashlight from his belt, clicking it on. The narrow beam illuminated concrete walls covered in green mold and stacks of rusted coffee cans, old vinyl booths, and broken neon signs from decades past.

They crept down the stairs, their boots squeaking against the damp concrete floor.

At the far end of the basement, resting beneath a heavy copper grease trap connected to the kitchen plumbing above, was a square metal access panel bolted into the wall.

Thomas knelt beside the panel. "This is it."

He used the flat edge of a screwdriver he picked up from a workbench nearby to pry open the rusted panel. Inside lay a heavy, dust-covered steel box secured with a mechanical combination lock.

"Do you know the code?" Thomas asked.

Clara knelt beside him, her fingers tracing the dusty brass dial. "My father always used the same numbers. The date my mother died."