I stared at the box.

I’d taken a security course last year in Atlanta, and there had been a lecture on the most commonly used passwords by Americans.

I typed in “123456,” and hit Enter. The box went blank.

I typed in the word “password.” Not that either.

Then “welcome.”

Then “admin.”

Harrington was unmarried. No kids. No girlfriend. I thought of the dog and typed in “beau.” A warning came up:

One more attempt before password locks

“Damn it,” I said aloud.

I wore another circle into the floor around my dining table, staring at the award for heroism that I’d received for the school shooting, which was parked in the center of the table.

Had that award kept me from pursuing any doubts I had in the back of my mind?

I walked over to my computer, which had gone to a screen saver of me and Jonas in Key West by the Mile 0 marker.

My son had a short reddish-brown Afro that was a combination of his mother’s beautiful black curls and my wavy chestnut hair.

Hitting the mouse jogged the computer back to life, and the screen flashed the same message as it had earlier, below the password box:

One more attempt before password locks

I thought about what Harrington valued.

I’d already put in the name “beau.” But I thought of how Kelly had referred to the dog. And the broken frame I’d found in the drawer. The one with the two B’s. The G.U. index card in the Rolodex also had two paw prints drawn on it.

I typed “beaubeau” into the box. I stared at the nonsense word and hit Enter.

The computer beeped, and a list formed onto the screen.

A list of forty or fifty folders.

Two hours later, I’d reviewed all of Jed Harrington’s backup documents, each carefully annotated in a process he’d probably learned at places like the Atlanta Journal-Constitution or The Washington Post.

There was enough hard evidence to keep Toby Monroe out of office or trying to fend off bad press or jail for the rest of his life.

And I hadn’t just killed a school shooter. I’d done the governor’s dirty work and taken out an enemy.

I moved into the hall bath and threw up.

Shit.

Of course Harrington wasn’t innocent. He had come to a school with a gun. Had shot a teacher. But he had been lured there by Kelly Borland’s actions.

And none of that changed the fact that Monroe knew who he was.

The governor had called me with a lie that he was concerned about public safety. And I’d executed the governor’s nemesis. I’d shot a man for him.

I needed a drink, and the house being empty wasn’t gonna stop me anymore.

54

I sat at the small counter at Scala’s that faced out onto 20th Street, and a woman brought over a pint of Terrapin Rye.

I lifted the sudsy mix to my lips. The liquid felt cold going down my throat.