David raised his voice from the master wardrobe.

“The lockbox in the nightstand is open, Clara.

What did you do with the mortgage papers?”

“They’re under the spare wool blankets in the linen closet,” I called.

I didn’t turn toward the front hall where my purse lay flat and empty on the wool rug.

I slipped through the mudroom doorway, turned the quiet brass lock with my left thumb and stepped out into the unheated garage.

The old Buick sat in the middle bay, smelling of cold vinyl and a faint trace of exhaust.