By six in the evening, the autumn light had faded to a deep, dark blue over the Cincinnati hills.

I sat by the living room window with a mug of black tea, watching the headlights move along the highway below.

On the small wooden table beside my chair lay the new mailbox key, silver and clean, next to my key ring.

There were no letters from Columbus in my box today, and there would not be any tomorrow.

For Mara Bell, they felt like closing a door and turning the lock myself.

I set my mug down on the windowsill and picked up the key ring from the table.

I turned the deadbolt and listened to the clean click of the lock.

I slid my new brass door key onto my ring.