I had Pete the locksmith meeting me at seven.

The drive to Boston would take two hours if the traffic stayed light.

Richard lifted one hand, not quite a wave.

I shifted into reverse.

In the mirror the mansion shrank to three lit windows, then to a dark hill.

Pete had the old cylinder out before I finished my coffee, brass shavings swept into a tidy pile on the porch boards.

“Whoever put this lock in did it in October,” he said.