The garage smelled of lawn mower gasoline, cold concrete and old dry paint cans piled high on the wall shelves.

David had already gone into the house, but the overhead fluorescent light was flickering in the cold air above my head.

In the far corner, wedged between two spare snow tires, stood the heavy green filing cabinet he’d brought home from his old office the week before.

A thick steel chain was looped twice around both metal handles and fastened with a brass padlock that had no key in it.

Every financial paper David had signed since our trip to Nevada was locked inside that metal cabinet.