Edlyn's thumb hovered over the screen. She typed in his birthday.
Incorrect passcode. 4 attempts remaining.
She tried their wedding anniversary. A foolish hope.
Incorrect passcode. 3 attempts remaining.
She closed her eyes, visualizing the flowers at the hospital. The date on the card. She didn't know the date, but she knew the room number. 1208.
She typed 1208.
The screen flashed. Biometric Lockout Enabled.
A red icon pulsed on the display. It required a face or a fingerprint.
Edlyn held the phone up to her own face, a desperate, irrational attempt. The system rejected her immediately.
The sound of a footstep on the plush carpet was the only warning she got.
Edlyn jerked her head up. Arno was leaning against the doorframe. He held a tumbler of whiskey in one hand. He wasn't angry. He looked bored.
The phone slipped from her numb fingers and landed on the Persian rug with a dull thud.
"What are you looking for, Edlyn?"
His voice was soft. It was the softness of a predator watching prey struggle in a trap.
Edlyn couldn't move. Her throat constricted. She was a child caught stealing candy, but the punishment here wouldn't be a timeout.
Arno walked into the room. He bent down and picked up the phone. He wiped the screen on his pants, casually, as if removing a smudge.
"This device has military-grade encryption," he said. "The FBI would need a week. You have a high school diploma and a set of paintbrushes."
He looked at her. His gaze stripped her bare, reducing her to a sum of her defects.
"Your curiosity is a glitch," he said. "I don't like glitches in my products."
Product. Not wife. Not partner. Product.
He took a sip of his whiskey, the ice clinking against the glass.
"Since you have so much energy, perhaps we should discuss your father's dialysis treatments for the next quarter. The costs are... rising."
Edlyn felt the blood drain from her face. It was his favorite lever. The only lever.
She lowered her head. She clasped her hands in front of her, assuming the posture of submission he required.
Arno chuckled. It was a dry, humorless sound.
"Good girl."
He turned to leave, then paused as if remembering something. He held the phone up, but kept his back mostly to her, angling the device so she couldn't see the screen clearly. He typed a quick message. Then he slid the phone into his pocket.
"Go to sleep," he said. "You need to look presentable tomorrow. We have the gallery opening."
He turned and walked out, taking the whiskey and the phone with him.
Edlyn sank onto the edge of the bed. Her legs gave out. She was shaking, her teeth chattering. But he had made a mistake. He thought she was looking at the screen. She wasn't. She was watching its reflection in the polished surface of the bedside lamp.
She closed her eyes, replaying the ghost-image of his thumb. Her mind, trained to see the faintest traces of underdrawings beneath layers of paint, reconstructed the motion. A swipe. A gesture. It wasn't a code, it was a pattern. She held up her own thumb in the dim light.
Top left. Bottom right. Bottom left. Top right. A jagged, reverse Z shape.
She had the key. Now she just needed the door.
