He brewed a pot of coffee. Tim had repaired his computer yesterday afternoon as promised, so he took the laptop to his office and started to work on some initial design ideas for a new client.
His office was located directly beneath Rachel’s study. Although it was surely his vivid graphic artist’s imagination at work, he thought he could sense her computer up there, tempting him to uncover its secrets.
Finally, he pushed out of the chair and strode upstairs, walking so fast that Coco, sleeping on the sofa in the family room, stirred awake and chased after him, curious about his urgent mission.
He rushed into Rachel’s study and punched the laptop’s power button.
The machine whirred, proceeding through the boot-up cycle. He sat in the desk chair, started to adjust the height to accommodate his legs, and stopped himself. If he neglected to readjust the chair, she would know he’d been in there.
Sweat coated his forehead. By doing this, he was crossing a line in their marriage, admitting to himself that he no longer trusted her, and there would be consequences to pay for his actions, if not to Rachel, then to his own conscience.
Coco had not entered the room. The little dog sat on her haunches on the threshold, and he swore that her bubbleeyed gaze was accusatory.
“I don’t have any choice,” he said to the dog, as if the animal would tattle on him. “I have to know what’s going on.”
The computer reached the Welcome screen. In a log-on box, the username field was populated by his wife’s first name, but the cursor blinked in the password field—which was empty.
He clicked the OK button, hoping that the system would grant him access without a password.
It beeped and flashed a pop-up message: Please enter a password.
“Shit,” he said.
He drummed a tattoo on the desk. He glanced at Coco, typed the dog’s name, and hit Enter.
Incorrect password.
He typed his own name.
Incorrect password.
Rachel’s salon.
Incorrect password.
“Damn it, what is it then?”
He leaned backward, the chair springs squeaking. He looked around the study. Gazed at her collection of dog figurines sitting on a shelf, the novels and business texts that packed the bookcase, the photograph of a sun-splashed beach standing on the corner of the desk.
Hunched forward, he began to type in anything that came to mind, combinations of numbers and letters, her birth date, their anniversary, his own birth date, the name of her favorite restaurant....
None of them worked.
He spun away from the computer. His knee bumped against the desk and set a ballpoint pen rolling across the desktop. It dropped into a small trash can.
He reached inside the can to retrieve the pen. His fingers brushed across a crumpled piece of paper.
He pulled out the pen, and the paper. He unfurled the paper on his lap.
It was a print-out of a Web page. Unfortunately, the ink cartridge had run dry while printing the document; the text was so faint it was virtually unreadable.
He raised the page to the overhead light.
He could make out four words: Illinois Department of Corrections.
There was other text, but it was too pale for him to decipher.
He checked the trash can again. It contained only a discarded wrapper from a black ink cartridge. Nothing else.
Apparently, Rachel had printed this document, seen the low-quality of the text, and had then replaced the cartridge. After which, she presumably reprinted the page.
There was a two-drawer filing cabinet on the other side of the room. He opened the drawers, found the expected files: documents for their home, insurance, tax returns, marriage certificate, financial investments. Nothing suspicious.
He examined the page again.
He’d at least learned why he’d seen the term “correctional center” on her laptop last night—not something that would have been found on a Web site about childbirth and babies. She’d been researching the Illinois prison system.
But why?
On the screen, the pulsing cursor mocked him.
A painful idea
His office was located directly beneath Rachel’s study. Although it was surely his vivid graphic artist’s imagination at work, he thought he could sense her computer up there, tempting him to uncover its secrets.
Finally, he pushed out of the chair and strode upstairs, walking so fast that Coco, sleeping on the sofa in the family room, stirred awake and chased after him, curious about his urgent mission.
He rushed into Rachel’s study and punched the laptop’s power button.
The machine whirred, proceeding through the boot-up cycle. He sat in the desk chair, started to adjust the height to accommodate his legs, and stopped himself. If he neglected to readjust the chair, she would know he’d been in there.
Sweat coated his forehead. By doing this, he was crossing a line in their marriage, admitting to himself that he no longer trusted her, and there would be consequences to pay for his actions, if not to Rachel, then to his own conscience.
Coco had not entered the room. The little dog sat on her haunches on the threshold, and he swore that her bubbleeyed gaze was accusatory.
“I don’t have any choice,” he said to the dog, as if the animal would tattle on him. “I have to know what’s going on.”
The computer reached the Welcome screen. In a log-on box, the username field was populated by his wife’s first name, but the cursor blinked in the password field—which was empty.
He clicked the OK button, hoping that the system would grant him access without a password.
It beeped and flashed a pop-up message: Please enter a password.
“Shit,” he said.
He drummed a tattoo on the desk. He glanced at Coco, typed the dog’s name, and hit Enter.
Incorrect password.
He typed his own name.
Incorrect password.
Rachel’s salon.
Incorrect password.
“Damn it, what is it then?”
He leaned backward, the chair springs squeaking. He looked around the study. Gazed at her collection of dog figurines sitting on a shelf, the novels and business texts that packed the bookcase, the photograph of a sun-splashed beach standing on the corner of the desk.
Hunched forward, he began to type in anything that came to mind, combinations of numbers and letters, her birth date, their anniversary, his own birth date, the name of her favorite restaurant....
None of them worked.
He spun away from the computer. His knee bumped against the desk and set a ballpoint pen rolling across the desktop. It dropped into a small trash can.
He reached inside the can to retrieve the pen. His fingers brushed across a crumpled piece of paper.
He pulled out the pen, and the paper. He unfurled the paper on his lap.
It was a print-out of a Web page. Unfortunately, the ink cartridge had run dry while printing the document; the text was so faint it was virtually unreadable.
He raised the page to the overhead light.
He could make out four words: Illinois Department of Corrections.
There was other text, but it was too pale for him to decipher.
He checked the trash can again. It contained only a discarded wrapper from a black ink cartridge. Nothing else.
Apparently, Rachel had printed this document, seen the low-quality of the text, and had then replaced the cartridge. After which, she presumably reprinted the page.
There was a two-drawer filing cabinet on the other side of the room. He opened the drawers, found the expected files: documents for their home, insurance, tax returns, marriage certificate, financial investments. Nothing suspicious.
He examined the page again.
He’d at least learned why he’d seen the term “correctional center” on her laptop last night—not something that would have been found on a Web site about childbirth and babies. She’d been researching the Illinois prison system.
But why?
On the screen, the pulsing cursor mocked him.
A painful idea
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