I’d seen Vera do it a couple of times when we’d had too much to drink and had locked ourselves out of the back. A multicolored ceramic owl perched along one of the flower beds. I knelt down and lifted it, praying she hadn’t changed her hiding place. A glint of metal and a rush of relief. A key ring with two keys, marked clearly with circular tabs labeled in John’s chicken scratch. One for the farmhouse. One for the cabin.

The key turned easily, and I stepped into her kitchen, quickly looking around. It was even more of a wreck than normal. Piles of dishes sat, unrinsed, in the sink. No fewer than three pots rested on the stove, old pasta and grime caked onto the bottoms. On the small kitchen island, a mostly drunk bottle of pinot noir sat next to dirty wineglasses and a thick stack of junk mail. I heard the creak of a floorboard, like someone was in the hallway, and my heart raced as I spun around, but no one was there. It was just the farmhouse, settling. Telling me it knew I was here even if she didn’t.

My eyes darted around the room. At the tile, cracked in places. At the molding, beautiful but dusty. I had been here so many times, but never before had I been here like this, prying, chasing whatever secrets she was keeping from me.

Maybe she hadn’t even held on to Rachel’s spare key. Maybe this was all just a big misunderstanding.

The junk drawer was packed to the brim, still just as full as when John had rifled through it, looking for the baggie of weed, the first night I came over for dinner. I sank a hand into its midst – the police must have had a field day with all of this – take-out menus; loose screws and nails; batteries that had to be expired covered in dust; pamphlets for microwaves, toaster ovens, a rice cooker; papers that must have held significance at one time but surely didn’t anymore. And keys, multiple sets of them, but none of them looked like mine.

I searched frantically, pushing papers aside, making a mess of it all but knowing she’d never be able to tell the difference, it was such a wreck already.

I was close to giving up – I’d looked through every drawer in the kitchen and had returned again to the cluttered junk drawer – when my hand came across it, nestled in the back among unused brackets for IKEA furniture.

A single key, silver, and the same shape as mine. With a tab on it, labeled by John. RACHEL.

I slipped it into my pocket, but it wasn’t enough. It could just be a coincidence. I needed something more.