Once, he tried to pass off this sequestering as a side effect of his new job, but I know better. I know if he resigned from the advisory position tomorrow and went back to consulting for the AMA, those keys and drawers and boxes would still be here, just like they are in every other house. I saw Evan King going through the same motions last month on a night he forgot to roll the shade down. And Evan’s not science adviser to the president of the United States. Evan’s a fucking accountant for a grocery chain. There can’t be much secrecy in that.

It’s Father Knows Best now, baby. All the way.

Patrick skipped most of this locking-and-unlocking ritual tonight, but habit forced him to roll over, open the drawer, and punch in the six-digit code he keeps more secret than a mistress. I heard the keys clang into their hiding place, and the electronic pulse of five more numbers before he slid the drawer closed and rolled onto his back, mumbling something about trying hard and needing more time.

I filled a glass with ice water and set it on a coaster within reach, along with three aspirin for the morning. Then I went in to read to Sonia. In between Rabbit and Pooh and Tigger, I thought of those five beeps when Patrick locked the safe.

Five beeps. Not six.

After checking on the boys, I slip off my shoes and pad down the hall to our bedroom. Patrick is snoring softly on his pillow, his chest rising and falling under the thin sheet. In the dim glow of the bedside clock, I feel for the brass drawer handle on his nightstand, hook an unsteady finger under it, and ease the drawer out along its runners. The humidity has made the old wood sticky, and a single finger isn’t enough to get it open. My hand curls around the brass and tugs.

Physics is a fascinating thing. I think of the times when I’ve been out for a drink with friends, in one of those bars where they serve beer in heavy glass mugs, except you find out—just about when the beer hits you in the face—that the mugs aren’t made of glass but of plastic, some kind of composite that has the look of glass but not the weight. You calculate the force needed to lift a pound or so of beer mug, and—whoops!—you’ve got a face full of lager. “Drinking problem,” you say, and start wiping.

Well, now I have a pulling problem.

The foot-pounds I exert on the drawer would have been enough to unstick it. Would have, if the brass handle hadn’t popped off.

I fly backward, hardware in hand, and my head hits the floor. Patrick stops snoring.

“What you doing, babe?” he mutters.

“Just tripped on the rug. Go back to sleep.”