In the hall, the heavy brass padlock hung on the closet door six feet away, and I stayed clear of it.

The envelope on top of the pile was from the Chesapeake city assessor.

Bell pulled a second chair up to the monitor in the precinct’s digital evidence room and tapped the space bar.

The doorbell log came up on a gray screen, forty-one clips stacked in a column.

“Front door, Tuesday, six forty-two a.m.,” Bell said.

“Your mother-in-law’s car is sitting in the driveway.”

I laid my hands flat on the table.