“But it was in the holiday tin,” Clara said. “It belonged to your father.”
“It is garbage,” Benjamin said, snapping the latches of his briefcase shut with two loud clicks. “We do not have time for mysteries this year.”
He walked out the front door without another word.
Clara stood by the window, her fingers tightening around her silver locket as she watched his car pull out of the driveway.
At one o’clock, Dorothy walked across the shared yard, her winter coat smelling of mothballs. She stepped onto the wooden porch and pulled a small brass magnifying glass from her pocket.
“Try using this,” Dorothy said.
The first quiet flakes of winter snow began to fall, drifting onto the dark porch railing.
Clara held the magnifying glass over the odd cutter, shielding it from the cold breeze. Under the lens, the seam where the metal met was thick and gray.
“There is no symmetry at all,” Clara said. “One side curves down, and the other is completely flat.”
“Someone made this by hand,” Dorothy said, adjusting her glasses again. “Look at those marks.”
“Why would anyone make a shape like this?” Clara asked.
Dorothy shook her head, looking out at the whitening street.
The cold air on the porch was starting to nip at Clara’s fingers, but she could not take her eyes off the rough seam.
At three, Marcus sat on the kitchen stool, his thumb tapping his phone screen with a soft, rhythmic click. He looked up as Clara took a fresh batch of gingerbread dough out of the refrigerator.
“Do you want to try it, Marcus?” Clara asked.
“Let me see,” Marcus murmured, his voice quiet.
Clara pressed the heavy steel cutter into the cold, rolled dough. She pushed down firmly on the metal rim, but the dough caught on the strange inner curve.
