“What about the letter from Vance and Miller?” Caroline asked.

Grant latched his briefcase shut without answering her question.

He walked down the narrow hallway toward the bedroom and closed the door behind him.

Caroline stayed on the sofa in the quiet flat, her fingers resting against the pocket of her sweater.

She pulled out the small brass key Grant had given her on Westminster Street.

She sat alone in the yellow light, holding the cold brass key to an office she wasn’t allowed to enter.

At seven-thirty the next morning, Caroline stood beside the oak counter at the Seabrook harbor diner while grease crackled on the black iron griddle.