The master closet has a keyed lock, the kind that came with the house and that we have never once turned.

He took a small brass key off his ring and used it.

“My passport is in there,” I said.

“Maya’s birth certificate.

Her Social Security card.”

“You’ll have them when this is straightened out.”

“Julian.”

He pulled the door shut and pressed it with the flat of his hand to hear the bolt seat.