At the study keypad, I tried our anniversary. *ACCESS DENIED.* His birthday failed too.
Then my eyes landed on the trash bin beside his desk. A crumpled piece of paper sat on top. I smoothed it out.
It was a bill from the hospital’s NICU, the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. The services listed were ones my son had never lived to receive.
The bill was dated the day after my “accident,” and the patient reference number ended in four digits: 0814.
August 14th.
My son’s due date.
I braced one hand against the wall. He had used our son’s due date as a password.
I typed 0-8-1-4.
*CLICK.* The lock disengaged.
Leather and stale espresso hung in the study. I moved past the mahogany desk and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves to a black safe built into the wall.
It used the same keypad. The four d
