He knew what it meant for an object to hold the shape of a person who was gone. Somewhere in a drawer at home he kept a wooden ruler with Claire's initials scratched into its handle. The ruler was chipped and ordinary, and no amount of money would persuade him to part with it. He looked again at the ring in the wallet and understood that the person who had lost it might be worrying about something entirely different from the cash. That decided him more firmly than any calculation of a possible reward.
His first thought was to call the number on the business card, but a receptionist who answered after several transfers told him the chief executive was unavailable and asked him to describe the item he had found. When he explained that it was a wallet, she became guarded, asked for his name and an address, and suggested he hand it to the nearest police station. Daniel thanked her and ended the call. The woman had been polite enough, but he disliked the idea of dropping a bundle of money and someone else's memories into a chain of offices and unanswered messages. He wanted the owner to receive everything directly and know it had arrived untouched.
It was a long walk to the address on the driver's license, farther still because the evening rain began before he had crossed the river. At a bus shelter, he considered turning toward the police precinct instead. The city was already darkening, and he had a repair promised to a customer by the following afternoon. Then he looked through the wallet again at the photograph, making sure the ring was still secure in its pocket. He closed it and kept walking.
At the edge of town, stone walls grew taller and driveways extended farther from the road. Security cameras hung beneath ornamental lamps, and houses seemed designed to discourage anyone from accidentally arriving at their doors. Daniel followed the address until he reached a broad iron gate beside a low guardhouse. Beyond it, a curved driveway led toward a mansion with high windows glowing against the rainy evening. He pressed the intercom button with a finger still stained from wood dye.
A man's voice answered. "State your business."
"My name is Daniel Brooks. I found something that belongs to Ms. Sterling, and I'd like to give it back to her."
The pause was immediate. The security guard, Marcus, looked at Daniel through the guardhouse window, taking in the faded jacket, wet boots, and battered bag of hardware supplies. He had worked private security long enough to know that people arrived with stories when they wanted access to a wealthy client's home. Sometimes the stories were harmless and sometimes they were not. "You can leave it here," he said through the speaker. "I'll see that she gets it."