Neither of us moved for several seconds.

“You dropped something,” he said.

His voice was quiet, stripped of the gentle warmth he used with his patients.

I pressed my back against his mahogany desk, my hands gripping the edge of the wood.

“Nathan,” I whispered.

He stepped into the office.

He shut the door behind him, and the lock clicked into place.

The room became instantly darker, lit only by the grey light filtering through the window.

Nathan bent down slowly.

His knees made a sharp cracking sound in the silence.

He picked up the key and stood back up.

He rolled the cold metal between his thumb and index finger.

“I asked you not to come in here, Clara,” he said.

He did not sound angry, which made it worse.

He sounded tired, like a teacher dealing with a repetitive child.

“The drawer was open,” I lied.

My voice sounded thin and hollow in my own ears.

Nathan walked past me, his leather shoes silent on the oriental rug.

He stood right in front of the desk drawer.