I left the library and drove straight back to the marital home at one thirty while Patrick was at his office downtown.

The brass lock on his private study desk had stayed shut since Tuesday morning, but the spare skeleton key from his mother’s old sideboard was still sitting in the blue porcelain teacup on the hall shelf.

I fit the key into the lock and turned it until the mechanism sprang open with a sharp metallic snap.

In the middle drawer, under a pile of quarterly tax statements, sat a heavy paper folder with a crisp white label.

I lifted the folder onto the mahogany desk and undid the brass fastener.