Claire reached out one finger and touched the horse’s molded mane without picking the toy up off the table.

“Greenie,” she breathed.

The name hung in the quiet living room between the hum of the little kitchen refrigerator and the heavy tick of the wall clock.

“Frank kept it in his nightstand drawer,” I said.

“Why would a seventy-two-year-old man hang on to a plastic toy in his nightstand for thirty-four years?”

“Because you dropped it behind the steam radiator in the hall of our apartment on Elm Street,” she said.

She paused for seven long seconds, gazing past my left shoulder at the dark glass of the front window.