He pulled out the old iron cylinder and dropped it into his toolbox with a dull clank.

He slid a shiny new brass cylinder into the slot.

“This one has a six-pin tumbler,” he said.

“Much harder to pick, and the old keys won’t even slide past the first ridge.”

He tightened the screws, then took a long, silver key from his pocket.

He slid it into the keyhole and turned it.

The deadbolt slid into the doorframe with a smooth, silent click.

“Perfect,” Frank said.

He handed me a metal ring with four identical silver keys.

They felt cold and heavy in my palm.

“Let’s do the kitchen door next,” he said.

I led him through the dining room and into the kitchen.

The kitchen door was smaller, leading out to the back porch and the overgrown garden.

Rylan had always promised to clear the weeds back there, but he never did.

Instead, he had used the backyard as a storage yard for his failed landscaping business equipment.

An old, rusty trailer still sat near the oak tree, its tires flat.