The townhouse was narrow and tall. Each landing had a different creak. Lena climbed to the attic with no light except the streetlamp through the small round window. The cigar box was still on the floor. The two ordinary keys were in it. The third was in her fist.

She sat in front of the low door and did not put the key in.

She only looked at the wood. Someone had painted it once, a long time ago, the same off-white as the rest of the house, and then stopped caring. There was a scratch near the bottom, as if a chair had been dragged out.

Lena put her...