I close my bedroom door the moment I am inside and lock it. The old brass key sits in the center of my palm, heavier than something so small should feel. Under the lamp the metal shows every year of use—worn edges, a slight bend near the head, the dull shine that only comes from being turned in the same lock over and over. No initials. No numbers. Nothing carved or stamped to tell me who it once belonged to.
I turn it slowly, then turn it again. I compare it to the modern keys on my own ring. This one is thicker, older, made for a different kind of lock. Somewhere in this house a door still waits for it.
I sit on the edge of the bed and argue with myself the way I have been arguing since the first envelope arrived. If the person who left the key wanted Robert to find it, they would have
