I walked over, knelt on the carpet, and pulled the rough wool aside.
The rusted padlock hung crookedly from the heavy iron latch, its ancient brass body dull from years in storage.
I reached out and touched the metal face of the lock.
Bright, silver gouges scored the yellow brass around the keyway, the marks fresh enough to leave tiny flakes of metal on my thumb.
Someone had worked a heavy tool against the casing, trying to force the cylinder.
The metal shavings were tiny, shining like spilled salt on the dark carpet fibers.
“Is something broken, Mom?”
Sophie stood in the doorway, her small fingers tugging the hem of her yellow shirt. Her voice was quick, breathless.
“The lock is just old,” I said, closing my palm over the shavings.
I rolled my left wrist, feeling the familiar, tight click in the joint while I looked at her.
“Did Uncle Travis come over yesterday?” she asked.
