A Fourth Trinket

The gap under the sofa seemed quiet enough. I stepped out from beneath the coffee table, one careful foot at a time. My gold bar stayed clasped tight against my chest. Along the baseboard, something caught the light. A brass washer. Flat. Round. I crouched low and tapped it with my elbow. It did not roll away. I picked it up carefully with the edge of my arm and nudged it back toward my rug. Three paper clips and now one round washer. Four metal pieces in total. They sit in a neat row.