He returned the key the next day.
“I thought he fixed it,” Patricia said.
“He did.”
“Did he change the lock?”
I tried to remember.
“I don’t know.”
We drove to the community mailbox together.
The lock worked normally.
I opened the small metal door and looked inside.
Two envelopes.
A grocery flyer.
Nothing unusual.
But something about the lock bothered me.
When I had worked inspections, I learned that the smallest physical details often told the clearest stories.
A new fitting.
Fresh tool marks.
A valve turned recently.
I knelt slightly and examined the cylinder.
There were scratches around the edge.
Not enough to prove anything.
But enough to make me uneasy.
Patricia touched my arm.
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking we change the lock ourselves.”
That afternoon, we did.
We also opened a post office box for financial correspondence and contacted our bank, retirement fund, insurance company, and credit reporting agencies.
