The locksmith put his canvas bag down on the hall floor and said that brass latch had no business being on a linen closet.

Two weeks had gone by since Officer Bell cut the padlock, and the house still smelled of fresh paint.

The locksmith was a skinny man in a blue cap with a screwdriver already in his hand.

“You’re the major?” he asked.

“Hannah Nolan,” I said.

“The lock’s gone.

I want the rest of it gone too.”

He knelt down and loosened the top screw.