“The new deadbolt’s keyed to one key, and it’s yours, Penelope,” the locksmith said, tightening the little brass plate on the frame.

He gave me three shiny brass keys on a plain metal ring with no extra tags on it.

I opened the mailbox beside the front door to clear out four days’ worth of piled-up letters.

A plain white envelope with no stamp on it sat between an electric bill and a hardware store coupon.

Bob’s neat cursive handwriting ran across the front of the folded note inside.

“I’ll sign over my three hundred equity shares in the hardware store straight to you,” the letter said, “if you tell the county prosecutor you won’t sign the bigamy filing.”