Dara told me once that if a password has less than six lowercase letters, she can crack it in a few seconds by hand. If it’s seven, it might take her around ten minutes. Most people use obvious numbers like birthdays—their own, their parents’, or children’s. Information that’s easy to find and codes that take a fraction of a second to guess. People like personal names, too—siblings, pets, nicknames. But you won’t believe how many people’s password is “password,” she told me. Or “password1234.” Or “password” plus their birth date. “Monkey,” she said. That’s a pretty common one. “Ninja,” “sunshine,” or “let me in.”

Then you have to know if there are any requirements: Number. Special character. Capitalized letter. People tend to put numbers at the end, usually 1 or 2. Same goes for special characters. They almost always capitalize the first letter. Those grammar rules are hard to break.

I hold the device in my hand. There are no password requirements for these kinds of phones; if anything, there are restrictions. For starters, the password must be number based. Jay may have used the letters associated with the numbers on the keypad, but certainly not the special characters or capitalization options. On the other hand, there’s no Hint button either. But if Dara could crack this in seconds, I should be able to do it in an hour.

The file from my office in front of me, I try various combinations of Jay’s birthday: two-digit month, two-digit year, four-digit year, double-digit day. I do the same for his parents’ birthdays. Everything I can think of related to UGA football. DAWG. SICM. KRBY. Dates of home games. The last four digits of his social. The first four. I try KEMP. JAYK. JKMP. BIRD. Because I briefly remember someone calling him Jay-bird. My eyes flicker from the phone to the sheet and back again. Looking for anything that stands out. I rub my temples.

Katie, I think.

She’d been swept away into the Unimportant folder after the messages between her and Jay turned out to be as boring and innocuous as she claimed. But what if this phone was for her? I imagine Jay on the stationary bike texting away sweet nothings. Katie lying on her bed under twinkling lights and soft blankets, texting him back. Arranging times to meet.

KATI.

KATE.

K8CO.

The screen brightens and I’m looking at an image of the aurora lights. No apps. Just three options at the bottom: Contacts, Menu, Messages. I know before I click there will be only one contact, but I press the button anyway.

Katie.

I double-check the number listed on the first call sheet. Same.

Then I check the messages. They’re all there. Starting October 14. I scroll to the beginning.

Jay: Hey. New number. This is safer.

Katie: Hey you. Can’t believe your brothers would steal your phone!