The house on Harbor Lane had been sold six months ago to a young couple who worked in the city and used it on weekends. Whit found that out from the title company. It took one phone call and ten minutes and a cab ride across the harbor in the rain.
We stood on the sidewalk outside. The curtains I'd seen from the road were different up close, yellow with small red flowers, the kind you buy because they're cheerful and cheap. There was a welcome mat. There was a pot of dead mums.
"I don't have a key," I said.
"You don't need one." Whit was looking at the mailbox. "Marcus's office was in the back. It had its own entrance from the deck. He kept the door locked, but the lock was the same as the front. I changed it after he died. For probate. Whoever bought the house would have been given the
