At eleven thirty I turned my Buick onto my street in Oakridge.

A white service truck from Miller Lock and Key was parked smack in the middle of my gravel driveway.

Clara was standing by my front hydrangeas with her arms folded over her green cardigan.

She started down the driveway before I’d even switched off the engine.

“Don’t put your key in that front lock, Penelope,” Clara said.

I got out of the car and looked up at the porch.

A man in gray work pants was putting a heavy cordless drill back into a black tool case on the top step.