The penthouse smelled of packing tape, cardboard, and the cold draft from the balcony door the movers had left unlatched.

By three in the afternoon, the living room held nothing but three folded moving blankets and the dark mark on the floor where Cole’s teak desk had stood for four years.

I walked into the empty study to check the built-in shelves one last time before handing the keys over to the bank’s receiver.

In the bottom right drawer of Cole’s mahogany desk, tucked behind leftover stationery and empty binder clips, was a silver frame.

I pulled it out into the afternoon light and wiped the glass with my sleeve.