PART 1 — The Birthday Nobody Remembered

The silver vintage earring on my dresser was missing its mate, and the small drawer in the hallway table had been left open exactly two inches.

Greg stood by my kitchen counter, his thumb and forefinger twitching against the starched cuff of his blue button-down shirt.

“You always keep the spare house keys in here, right?” he asked, his voice coming in a quick, sharp burst that cut through the morning quiet.

I reached up to touch my empty left earlobe, trying to remember where I had last put the silver set.

“The spare keys are on the brass hook by the back door, Greg,” I said.

He did not look at the hook.

Instead, he adjusted his left cuff and then his right, a habit that usually appeared when his hardware store on Maple Street was having a bad month.

“Right, of course.

But what about the important things, like the deed or the papers for the bank?” His eyes moved toward the hallway.

“Those are in the bedroom safe.”

I set his heavy ceramic coffee mug on the table.

He took a quick sip, although the coffee was too hot, and looked down at the yellow linoleum.

“And you keep that brass key on your main keychain, or is it tucked away somewhere else in the house?”

A small uneasiness made me hesitate.

Then I thought about the notices piled on his desk and the customers who now bought their tools at the big store outside town.

My son had enough troubles without my finding something sinister in a question about a key.

“It stays in my purse, where it always has been.” I pointed to the black leather handbag on the dining chair.