I check the landline. Still no dial tone. I don’t even get static, nothing. I yank on my sneakers and rush out into the driving wind and rain. I’m soaked when I reach the cottage. The door is unlocked. His office is neat, tidy, cedar-scented. The woodstove is loaded with logs in a careful, symmetrical arrangement. The plush armchair invites me to sink into its cushions. Beside the burnished oak desk, the standing lamp casts its warm glow across the room. The framed photograph on the desk shows the two of us dancing at the wedding reception. In the room to my left, the weight bench and exercise equipment give up no secrets. In the supply room to the right, everything is neatly organized—paper on shelves, boxes of envelopes, his printer, boxes of ink. Extra pens.
In his office, I sit in the chair at his desk. A screen saver shows a school of bright orange fish swimming across his computer monitor. He could be hiding secrets on his hard drive. I move the mouse, and the screen saver disappears, revealing the login window reading, Enter Password. I try my name, his name, the name of our street, the island, the telephone number, my Social Security number. Nothing works. Then I try his mother’s name, Malinda. This has to work.
But it doesn’t. My husband is not stupid. That much I know. He could have hidden a hint to his password somewhere in this room. In the center drawer of his desk I find pens, envelopes, rubber bands, paper clips—the usual office supplies. In the top right drawer, bills to be paid—electricity, telephone. A paper calendar with nothing written on it.
I’m shaking, my damp clothes clammy against my skin. Outside, the crashing of waves mingles with the roar of the storm. I peer out the window. No sign of his truck on the road, but he could return at any moment. I need to log into his computer. The answers must lie here. He probably chose a complicated password. That would be the smart thing to do. Jacob is smart.
But what is his weakness? His obsession?
On a hunch, I type in “lemon thyme,” his mother’s favorite plant. Nothing.
What was the scientific term? If nothing else, my background in marine biology taught me to remember complicated words. I type in thymuscitriodorus, running the two words together, Thymus and citriodorus. I’m surprised I remembered them. The screen turns blue for a moment, and then the word plays across the screen, reading, Welcome, and I’m in. An icon on the task bar indicates the computer is connected to the Internet.
With trembling fingers, I enter “Kyra Winthrop” in the Google search box. The Internet does not crash. Instead, numerous links pop up. The first page shows a few other Kyras. I scroll through the hits, but I can’t find anything recent. Nothing about the accident, the dive. Nothing about me. The results don’t match the hits that popped up on my computer when I searched the Internet. The question is, why? An idea comes to me.
I peer behind his computer. A gray cable extends from the back of the chassis to the satellite Internet router on a shelf beneath the desk. Could he be routing the Internet through his computer first, before any information reaches my computer? The idea seems improbable, and yet. His words echo in my mind, from our dinner with Nancy and Van. I’m the boss. I can make anything possible.
I enter “Kyra Munin” next, and a photo album from a wedding photographer’s website pops up: Kyra’s Wedding. I’m in a familiar, shimmering dress. We’re sitting on a stone wall in a tight embrace, cheek to cheek. I blink, look at the photograph again, and rub my eyes. Aiden is wearing a dashing tuxedo. I click back to the main page, Aiden and Kyra, August 20. Friday Harbor. Our Wedding Day.
In the photographs, late-afternoon sunlight casts faint halos around Aiden and me. Of course we were married three years ago. I’ve always known. The truth waited patiently in the shadows, hoping to be found. Aiden and I fell deeply, fiercely in love. We planned to be together for the rest of our lives. Here we are, sitting on the stone wall holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes.
The wedding photographer left no setting unexplored. We’re running together at the beach, in the forest, hand in hand. Locked in a passionate embrace, kissing. Framed by the sunset. We’re standing close to each other, facing each other, with a blur of greenery in the background. Aiden lifts my hand to his lips. I’m smiling up at him. I’m a few pounds heavier, with thick lashes, pink cheeks.
In another artsy shot, a dried sea star rests on a tablecloth, holding a wedding ring on each of its arms. The rings are engraved with iconic Northwest Native depictions of the orca. I remember now. We chose the rings together. We wrote our own vows. We never wanted to be conventional. Aiden gazed down at me, the afternoon sunlight on his hair. His fingers trembled as he held my hands. I hoped nobody could see how nervous I was. The day was pleasantly warm. I could feel our friends watching from their seats, surprised by our hasty decision to marry, but delighted for us all the same. The officiant, a balding man in thick glasses, nodded gently to Aiden, urging him to begin. Aiden cleared his throat and said, I’m glad to be on this planet, hurtling through space with you, celebrating each moment of our love. I can’t wait to find out what tomorrow will bring. I get to spend the rest of my life with you . . .