He was leaving, likely to clear his head, or perhaps to make a phone call he didn’t want me to hear.

The house was completely empty now.

I stood in the center of the bedroom, staring at the closed bedroom door.

The key to Richard’s office was kept on his ring, but I knew he kept a spare.

He had told me once, years ago, that he kept a master key in the brass urn on the mantelpiece in the living room.

My hands began to sweat as I opened the bedroom door and stepped back out into the quiet hallway.

Every step down the stairs felt like a betrayal, but the image of Rose’s tear-stained face in the diner wouldn’t leave my mind.

I reached the living room, my eyes fixing on the brass urn sitting beside the family photographs on the mantel.

I reached inside the urn, my fingers brushing against cold, heavy metal.

I pulled out a small, tarnished brass key.

I walked down the hallway to his office door, my breath catching in my throat as I inserted the key into the lock.