The bungalow on Elm Street was pitch dark when I got home at seven.

The hall clock ticked against the silent walls, counting on past the hour Bob usually left for his nightly trips.

I went into the little study off the living room and sat in the swivel chair behind Bob’s oak desk.

The brass desk lamp threw a pale yellow circle over the blotter.

The middle drawer was unlocked, sitting half an inch open against its wooden frame.

Inside were two piles of hardware store invoices, an eighty-five-dollar plumbing supply receipt, a box of brass paper clips, and a blue folder labeled property records.