For nearly a year, he had struggled to work at all. His savings thinned, his friendships became awkward with the good intentions of people who did not know what to say, and a drawer in his bedroom filled with invitations he could not bear to answer. It was Alice's leaking porch step that drew him back into work. He fixed it one cold morning, then repaired her rocking chair, then accepted a commission from someone she knew. By the time Daniel realized he had built himself a small business, he was breathing more easily than he had in months.
He bought new hinges, a tin of finish, and a replacement bit he had broken the previous week. On his way home, he passed the glass tower where Sterling Living had celebrated its new investment agreement. Most of the television crews were gone, leaving disposable coffee cups near the curb and a security guard standing under the awning. Daniel might never have looked toward the street if a gust of wind had not pushed a paper cup across his path. He stepped aside, saw a dark leather shape near the gutter, and stopped.
The wallet was well made, almost understated, the sort of expensive item that revealed itself through the quality of its stitching rather than an obvious logo. He picked it up and looked around for someone searching the sidewalk. Nobody appeared to be missing anything. He moved out of the pedestrian flow and opened it only far enough to find identification.
A driver's license showed a woman with dark hair and an expression so composed it barely resembled a smile. The name beneath it was Victoria Sterling. There was also a passport, a business card bearing the title Chief Executive Officer, and a quantity of cash so large that Daniel closed the wallet for several seconds before looking inside again. He had held expensive furniture in his workshop, but he had never seen that much paper currency carried as casually as spare receipts.
He counted only enough to understand that it was substantial, then noticed a small envelope of identification cards and the inner pocket near the spine. The gold ring sat against a folded photograph, protected with the care people reserve for things that break easily. Daniel drew the photograph out just enough to see a younger woman smiling beside a little girl. The woman's hand rested on the child's shoulder, and on that hand was the same ring.
He sat on a bench under a streetlamp while people passed without noticing him. He understood the cash immediately: it belonged to someone, and returning it was the only honest thing to do. But the photograph made the matter personal. He still carried a picture of Claire in the glove compartment of his truck because she was laughing in it, caught halfway through telling him not to take the photograph. He could buy another truck, another camera, even another house if luck ever allowed it. There would never be another photograph taken at that exact moment.
Daniel considered his options. He could deliver the wallet to the police, call the business number on the card, or leave it with the security desk at the glass tower. Each choice made sense, but each also put another pair of hands between a grieving person's memory and its owner. The business card listed Sterling Living headquarters and a direct assistant line, while the driver's license provided a residential address outside the city. He looked at the hour, the bruised evening sky, and the first drops of rain on the pavement.