“Mrs. Clarke,” he muttered, brow furrowed. “How long have you lived here?”

“Five years.”

“And you and your husband are the only ones with keys?”

“Yes.”

Vince shook his head, holding the brass cylinder up to the morning light. “No. You aren’t. This cylinder’s chewed to hell. See these scrape marks on the pins?

This lock’s been opened over and over by a poorly cut, cheap brass duplicate. A kiosk key. And recently — there’s fresh brass dust.”