Chapter 4: The Witness Line

I went back to the house that afternoon, because my daughter's blanket was in it.

Joel had told me not to. I told myself I would be in and out in ten minutes.

Britt drove. She parked her little hatchback at the curb and left the engine running.

"If he's in there," she said, "I'm going in with you."

"He's at work."

"Then why is there a van?"

A white van was parked in our driveway with a locksmith's name on the door.

The man was crouched at the front step, packing a drill into a case.

"Morning," he said. "All done. Two new keys, and the old ones won't work."

"Who ordered that?"

He checked his phone. "Account's under a Paulsen. Ingrid. She said the lady of the house had asked for it."

"I'm the lady of the house."

"Then I guess you got a key coming."

He tipped his cap and drove away.

I stood on the lawn I had mowed all last summer, holding Maisie, in front of a door I could not open.

Across the street, a neighbor in a bathrobe came out to get her paper and stayed where she was.

Two other doors opened up and down the block.

I put Maisie in Britt's arms and tried the handle anyway.

It didn't move.

"I'll kick it in," Britt said.

"Don't. He'd say I was breaking in."

"It's your house."

"Is it?"

A silver car pulled up behind Britt's hatchback.

Ingrid got out in a camel coat with a key ring in her hand and a folder under her arm.

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