“The drawers don’t lock, Mara,” she said, her eyes shifting to the corridor as the elevator doors chimed.

“Anyone could have slipped behind the desk while you were at lunch yesterday.”

I looked down at the brass keys, which were worn down at the ridges from years of turning locks.

One of them had a small notch cut into the head, a mark I recognized from the key to my father’s old backyard workshop.

My throat felt dry, but I kept my voice level.

“Let’s move the afternoon appointments to Monday,” I said, dropping the key ring into my cardigan pocket.