“No one,” Arthur said from the doorway.

“Not without a signed power of attorney or a direct court order.”

“Can my husband ask for a copy of the key?” I asked.

“Mr.

Reed isn’t a listed signer on box thirty-two,” Arthur said softly.

“His name doesn’t appear anywhere on this agreement.”

At three o’clock, I sat across from my mother in a corner booth at the diner on Oak Street.

A cast-iron radiator clanked steadily under the windowsill, warming the glass.