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 occurred to him: if he knew his wife better, he would know her password. If they were truly soul mates, as he believed, he would understand how her mind worked, would be able to figure out the secret pass code she would create.
The realization brought an even more hurtful truth: if their marriage was stronger, she wouldn’t be hiding anything like this from him in the first place.
The phone on the desk rang. According to Caller ID, the call was coming from Rachel’s salon.
He grabbed the phone and left her study for the hallway.
“Hey, love,” she said. “Whatcha up to?”
“Just working.”
“You okay? You sound kinda weird.”
“I’m fine. Just been busy this morning.”
“I won’t keep you then. I wanted to let you know that my appointment with the OB-GYN is for two o’clock. Still want to come?”
“Definitely. Where’s the doctor’s office?”
She gave him the address, and told him to call her if he didn’t think he’d be able to make it. He assured her that he would be there.
“You sure everything’s okay, love?” she asked again.
“Everything’s fine. I’ll see you soon.”
He hung up.
Now, both of them were lying to each other.
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