He was already parked in the driveway of the Boston house, and the new brass lock was sitting on the tailgate of his truck.

“The work order came in Monday,” he said.

“From a Victoria Sterling.”

I stood on the brick walk with my father’s brass key in my coat pocket.

It had come off his ring the day we buried him.

“You want to tell me what this is all about?” Pete asked.

“Go ahead and change it,” I said.

He fitted the new cylinder.