We turned onto Thames Street, where the red brick building of Vale House stood.

The brass sign near the double glass doors still read *Hartwell & Vale*.

Two men in grey work shirts were already standing on the steps with a toolbox.

A police cruiser was parked across the street, its lights off, but the officer inside watching the building.

Marcus stopped the car at the curb.

I got out, refusing the umbrella this time.

The cool drizzle felt clean on my skin.

The locksmith, a middle-aged man with a graying beard, looked up as I approached.

“Ms. Vale?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Are you ready?”

“We are just waiting on your word,” he said, lifting a heavy brass deadbolt from his case.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Change every lock on the exterior doors.”

“And the executive offices on the third floor.”

“You got it,” he said.

He picked up his drill, the sharp whine of the motor echoing off the brick facade of the building.

I walked inside.

The lobby was quiet, the receptionist’s desk empty.