I sat in his oak swivel chair and pulled open the shallow center drawer of his desk, rummaging through the clutter of expired coupons, dried-up ballpoint pens, and loose paperclips. The drawer always stuck on the left side, requiring a firm tug that made the metal hardware rattle against the dark wood. I sorted through a stack of old property tax assessments, a pencil stub with the eraser worn down to the metal, and three rubber bands that had dried and cracked with age.
There was a small wooden box in the back corner of the drawer, the one Troy’s father, Frank, had carved for him out of cedar when Troy graduated from the inspector’s academy. I lifted the heavy lid, expecting to find the spare batteries or perhaps some extra fuses, but instead, my fingers brushed against a cold, hard object lying at the bottom beneath a piece of blue felt.
It was a small brass key, no longer than my thumb, with a flat, circular head.
