written in faint pencil, was a line she had never seen.
NOT MONEY. MAP.
Lily turned the check over.
In daylight, beneath the ink, pale marks appeared.
A watermark.
No.
A hand-drawn grid.
Coordinates.
A tiny symbol of a hawk.
And beneath it, three words:
THE REAL VAULT.
Lily folded the check and shoved it deep into her pocket.
A low engine growled somewhere ahead.
Not behind.
Ahead.
She crouched between the pines as a dark green pickup rolled to a stop on an old fire road.
The driver’s door
