I knelt on the thin carpet, my knees pressing into the worn fibers. The metal of the key slid into the lower lock with a dry, stiff click that felt surprisingly easy, as if the lock had been turned recently. I turned the key to the right, and the heavy steel drawer slid forward on its rollers, releasing a quiet scrape that sounded loud in the empty house.
Inside, there were no green hanging folders or neatly labeled tabs like the ones in the drawer above. There was only a single, thick manila envelope lying flat on the green steel bottom of the drawer.
The envelope was blank, without a name or an address written on the front. I carried it into the kitchen, setting it down next to my blue ceramic mug with the chipped handle, which was still half-filled with cold tea from breakfast. My hand shook slightly as I wound the small red string around the cardboard button to open the flap.
