* * *
My eyes linger now on the image of Violet, caught mid-laugh, my mother just a blurred figure in the background, and I ache to take it off the wall, to slip it between the layers of clothes in my suitcase and bring it with me, like a talisman. But I can’t. And it nearly destroys my resolve to have to leave it behind.
I tear my gaze from my sister’s smiling face, forever frozen at age eight, with only a few more years ahead of her, and make my way to Rory’s spacious office. Lined with wood paneling topped with bookshelves, his enormous desk dominates the room. His computer sits on top of it, dark and silent, and I walk past it to a section of the bookshelves behind. I pull the red book from its spot and set it down, reaching my hand into the empty space, feeling around for the small button hidden there and pressing it. The paneling that lines the wall below the shelves pops open with a tiny click.
Danielle isn’t the only one who’s been taking notes.
I pull it open and slip Rory’s second laptop from its hiding place. Rory doesn’t keep hard copies of anything. Not receipts. Not personal notes. Not even photographs. Hard copies are too easy to lose track of. Too hard to control, he’d once explained to me. This machine is where everything hides. I don’t know exactly what’s on it, but I don’t need to. No one keeps a secret laptop unless he’s hiding something big. Perhaps there are financial records that outline undoctored foundation accounts or money he’s siphoned off and redirected offshore. If I can get a copy of the hard drive, I’ll be able to leverage it if Rory ever gets too close.
Because despite what I’ve directed him to do in my letter, I have no doubt Rory will go to great lengths to find me. Petra and I discussed the possibility of faking my death. An accident where the body couldn’t be recovered. But Nico had warned us off that plan. “It would be all over the national news, which would make your job harder. Better to make it look like you’ve left him. You’ll get a little bit of attention in the tabloids, but it’ll fade fast.”
As expected, when I open the laptop, I’m asked for a password. And while Rory has all of mine, I don’t know any of his. What I do know, however, is that Rory cannot be troubled by details such as maintaining passwords. That’s a job for Bruce, who keeps them in a small notebook in his desk.
I’ve been watching Bruce for weeks now, my eyes tracking the green notebook as he’d riffle through it, punching in passwords whenever Rory needed them. I arranged flowers on the table just outside Rory’s office or searched through my purse in the doorway, tracking where Bruce kept the notebook during the workday and where it went at night.
I cross the room to Bruce’s desk and run my hand along the far side, engaging the lever that releases a small drawer, the notebook nestled inside. I flip through it quickly, past account numbers and passwords to various services—Netflix, HBO, Amazon—my fingers shaking, knowing every minute, every second counts.
Finally, I find what I’m looking for near the back. MacBook. I type the series of numbers and letters into the computer, and I’m in. The time at the top of the screen reads one thirty as I slip the thumb drive into the USB port and start dragging files onto it, the icon showing a number in the thousands, slowly counting down. I glance at the door again, imagining all my plans coming to a halt in Rory’s office, copying his secret hard drive in my pajamas, and try not to picture what he would do if he caught me. The rage I’d see in his eyes, the four quick strides he’d take until he could grab me, shoving me or dragging me out of his office, up the stairs to the privacy of our bedroom. I swallow hard.
A creak from somewhere above me—a footstep or floorboard settling—sends my heart pounding against my chest and a thin sheen of sweat to break out on my forehead. I creep into the hall and listen, holding my breath, trying to hear past the rush of panic flooding through me. But all is silent. After a few minutes I return to the computer, staring at the screen, urging it to go faster.
But then my eyes fall on Bruce’s notebook again, filled with passwords that would allow me to look into every corner of Rory’s life. His calendars. His email. The Doc. If I had access to that, I’d be able to keep an eye on them. To know what they’re saying about my disappearance, to know if they’re looking for me, and where. I’d be able to stay one step ahead of them.
With another glance at the empty hallway, I flip through the notebook, back several pages, until I find Rory’s email password, and grab a yellow Post-it Note off Bruce’s desk, copying it just as the computer finishes with the files. The clock in the downstairs entry chimes two, and I pull the thumb drive from the port and slide his computer back into its hiding place. I close the drawer with a small click and replace the red book on the shelf, return Bruce’s notebook to its hiding place, and check the room for any signs that I’ve been there.
When I’m satisfied, I make my way back to my office. There’s only one thing left to do.
I slide onto my chair, the leather cold against the backs of my legs, and open my laptop, my Detroit speech still on the screen. I close the window, knowing my icon will disappear from the top of everyone else’s version, and log out of my email. When I’m back to the Gmail homepage, I sit for a minute, letting the silence of the house and the faint ticking of the hall clock wash over me. I take a deep breath and let it out, and then another, trying to steady my nerves. Trying to think through every contingency, every little thing that might go wrong. I glance at the clock again, reminding myself that at two in the morning, no one will be awake. Not Bruce. Not Danielle. Definitely not Rory. For the millionth time, I wish for a smaller house. One where the walls weren’t so solid. Where the carpets didn’t absorb people’s footsteps so well, where I could reassure myself with the sound of Rory’s soft snoring. But he’s two floors above me, and I need to get this done.
I enter his email address and squint at the Post-it, carefully entering the password. Then I press return. Immediately, Rory’s phone buzzes on the desk next to me, an alert lighting up the screen. Your account has been accessed by a new device. I swipe left to clear it, then turn to my computer, Rory’s inbox in front of me. At the top of a long string of unread messages is the alert. I delete it, quickly toggling over to his trash, and delete it from there too.
My eyes scan his homepage, looking at the various folders, before clicking over to the Doc. They’ve labeled it Meeting Notes. I open it, holding my breath, wondering what I might find, but it’s empty. Waiting for tomorrow. I imagine myself holed up late at night somewhere in Canada, a silent observer as Rory and Bruce deconstruct my disappearance, trying to figure out what happened. But more than that, I’ll be privy to everything Rory and Bruce say to each other, every conversation they think is private.
At the top, it reads Last edit made by Bruce Corcoran five hours ago. I click on it, wondering what the edit history might show, and a long list pops up on the right-hand side of the screen. 3:53 Rory Cook added a comment. 3:55 Bruce Corcoran added a comment. But no specifics. My eyes travel down the long list to the bottom of the window, where a box that says Show Changes is unchecked. I hover my cursor over it, tempted, but I leave it unchecked. I’m logged in, and that’s all that matters.