Gallagher, sole surviving owner, with the clerk’s red seal pressed into the corner and the recording date beneath it.

The baby pushed a foot up under my ribs, and I shifted the folder higher.

Through the front window I could see the hallway hook where the spare key had hung for four years.

Still empty.

Forty cents of brass, and it had never once been used by anybody but my father.

My phone buzzed against my leg.

Charles, on the screen, and then the little voicemail icon.

I didn’t play it.