It was the spare key to the latch on Margaret’s dining room pantry, sitting exactly where I had left it three nights earlier.

I stood up, picked up the cold brass key, and walked over to the small ceramic jar next to the sink.

I dropped it in among the spare twist ties, rubber bands, and paper clips.

The key struck the bottom of the heavy stoneware jar with a short, dull clink.

I was never going to drive back to Elm Street to leave it on Margaret’s counter.

Lucy laid her fork across the rim of her empty plate and wiped her mouth with a paper napkin.