Rain had begun to fall, a cold, needle-like drizzle that slicked the asphalt.

The office smelled of damp carpet and stale coffee.

A clerk with a faded tattoo on his forearm took the receipt without looking at my face.

“Locker 408,” he said, sliding a heavy brass key across the counter. “Elevator is around the corner. Left at the blue line.”

The elevator was a freight lift that groaned as it climbed to the fourth floor.

The corridor was lined with identical corrugated steel doors, painted a dull gray.

I found the lock on unit 408, inserted the key, and pulled the metal shutter upward.

The air inside the small unit was freezing and smelled of cedar and old wool.

A single black duffel bag sat on a wooden shelf in the center of the concrete room.

I unzipped it with trembling fingers.

Inside was the charcoal-gray wool suit Alexander had worn on the afternoon we stood before the justice of the peace in Connecticut.

The lapel was stiff, darkened by a thick, dark brown stain that had dried into the fibers.