The door did not move.

A new brass lock had been fitted into it, its metal face shining in the light of the single bulb overhead, and I stood there with my hand on the cold wood and felt the whole evening reorganize itself around that one small fact.

Jonathan kept the key on his dresser, next to his signet ring and his watch.

He had the only one.

In my work I had spent years reading the small signs of concealment, and I knew that a lock is a kind of statement.