For the first time in months, I entered Martin’s office.
I lingered near the doorway while Jane busied herself with shelves and papers. Slowly, I rolled toward the desk.
That’s when I noticed one drawer wouldn’t open. I pulled again. Nothing.
“Jane,” I asked, “did you know about this?”
“About what?”
“This drawer. It’s locked.”
She frowned. “Dad didn’t lock his drawers.”
“Exactly what I thought.”
But here it was—locked.
