The house was silent by eleven. I walked through the dark rooms, checking the locks and making sure the porch light was switched on.
I stopped in the living room, intending to turn off the floor lamp by the window. Under the yellow bulb, I noticed something different.
A fresh scratch on the oak floor, near the side of the heavy velvet couch. It was a pale, raw line about three inches long, where the wood had been dragged.
The couch had been shoved back, but not quite into its original alignment with the rug.
I knelt down, my fingers touching the cold wood. The scratch was deep enough to catch my fingernail.
Behind the couch, the baseboard molding looked slightly askew. I touched the top edge of the oak trim, expecting it to be firm.
It wiggled.
I pulled back on the decorative lip. The wood did not crack or splinter. Instead, it slid forward on a small brass hinge that had been painted over years ago, revealing a tiny, dark cavity in the plaster.
I reached inside the narrow opening, my fingers brushing against cold metal.
I pulled out a small object.
It was a brass key, wrapped in a single piece of yellowed notebook paper.
