When I was a little girl, I lived in a 1930s-era house, complete with keyholes big enough to look through, heavy doorknobs, and leaded glass. One day, I found a key—I can’t remember where I’d found it. It was an old-fashioned key—heavy, corroded metal. A thick stem and chunky teeth. I asked my mother what it was to, and she said she didn’t know. I pondered. I asked her again what it was to. She still didn’t know. There was something about that key that was elusive, even a little frustrating. What did it lock? And what was the purpose of the locking? Did this key keep people out? Or did it lock people in? Was it to a box, filled with secrets and keepsakes? And what made those things worthy of protection? The key seemed to have a story, but its lips were sealed. Amazingly enough, I found myself writing about keys when I started working on my new book, A PROMISE OF SAFEKEEPING. The hero, Will, is an antiques dealer—a picker. And he’s fascinated by the stories that antiques tell (and don’t tell). Here’s the story: Nine years ago, Lauren Matthews prosecuted the case of a lifetime. But…