“Can Officer Marcus drive you behind the ambulance?”
“I’ll follow in two minutes,” I said.
“The medical tub is in the hall closet.”
I turned toward the narrow closet under the stairs.
Marcus followed two steps behind me, his duty belt creaking in the quiet house.
I pulled the closet door open and reached for the middle shelf, where we had always kept our family records.
The blue plastic tub sat on the floorboards, its clear lid cracked across the middle, with utility receipts and dental cards scattered over the carpet.On the top shelf, where Derek usually kept our tax binders, sat a heavy black document case made of reinforced ballistic nylon with aluminum trim.
Two three-digit brass dials held the case shut, both turned to zero, their metal faces polished clean.
A white adhesive label was taped across the handle, marked in Derek’s handwriting with three words: Legal and Custody.
