The windshield wipers kept up a steady, wet beat against the glass as I put the LeSabre in park under the bare oaks.

I reached into my coat pocket and took out the small brass key Frank had pressed into my hand at the hospice.

It was still wrapped in the stiff paper napkin from his bedside table.

The key was small, with two narrow ridges cut into its sides and a capital M stamped near the hole for the ring.

It wasn’t a front door key, and it was much too small for any of the bedroom locks in Frank’s house.

Frank had given me the key because he knew his heart was giving out and his time was nearly up.