I still didn’t know which lock at Miller Hardware or in Frank’s house that key was cut for.

“He put a brass padlock on the hall closet,” I said.

“Gene is on the run,” Claire said.

“A man doesn’t book movers for seven in the morning unless he knows the floor is caving in under his feet.”

Up ahead of us in the rain, the white moving van pulled out of Frank’s driveway, its tires spraying wet gravel onto the shoulder.

The heavy truck rumbled past our windshield, its back doors latched tight against the storm.