He had been working on the door for forty minutes and hadn’t once asked about the police tape that had been up across it in September.

“Grade one,” he said, holding the bolt up to the light.

“Steel strike plate.

Three-inch screws into the stud, not the trim.

Nobody kicks this in.”

“I’m not worried about kicking.”

He set the plate and squared it, then looked at the empty spot beside the frame where the brass hook used to hang.

I had taken the hook down myself, spackled the two holes, and painted over them twice.