At eleven fifty-five, I walked down the carpeted hallway to the entry closet where Cole kept his winter coats.

He had mentioned on Thursday that he’d left a spare bottle of infant fever medicine in his coat pocket after coming home from his Midtown office.

I opened the cedar closet door, unbuttoned his heavy charcoal wool overcoat, and slid my right hand deep into the silk-lined inside breast pocket, past his leather driving gloves and a folded stack of client meeting notes.

My fingers brushed against a hard, square velvet box near the bottom seam of the lining.