Page 108 of The New Couple in 5B

“He’s hiding something,” I tell her. “He lied about the box. He’s listening over the intercom.”

Do I sound like someone clinging to edges of sanity? From the look on Sarah’s face, I’m guessing yes.

I touch the keyboard and the screens come to life, all three of them, but the login is password protected.

“The Windermere” in bold purple type floats in the black background.

What password would he use? Most people use important dates or the nicknames of loved ones. But I don’t know Abi well enough to have that kind of intimate detail about his life.

Rather than guess, I open the drawer beneath the keyboard. When it comes to passwords, it’s also true that people don’t go to the trouble of memorizing them, especially older people. I rifle around a bit and finally find a folded notecard buried in the back. It’s filled with Abi’s precise handwriting, smudged pencil, a list of characters and numbers, each one crossed off until the back of the card where a final collection of characters is scribbled into the remaining space.

I enter it carefully, Sarah standing over my shoulder. She still smells of home, laundry detergent and lilac soap, grass and sunshine.

I press Enter after putting in the password and am nothing short of amazed when it works and the black screen fades away.

I draw in a breath as the screen reveals rows of boxes, each one containing an image projected from one of the surveillance cameras.

Various views from the basement, the elevator foyer on each floor, the service hallways and garbage chutes, the back alley where the dumpsters sit, the mailboxes.

But scrolling through each one, it’s just as Abi said, common spaces, dark places, entry points. I tap on each and notice that the operator can toggle the camera to get a different view of the room. There’s a speaker icon in the corner of each image. Touching the curser to the laundry room, I hear the washing machine swishing.

How does the intercom work? I thought there would be some kind of box or switchboard. There’s nothing like that in the sparsely furnished room, nothing on the computers. There must be something. Where is it?

Feeling the ticking of the clock, I glance around the small space. Behind the dry-cleaning rack, there’s another door.

It’s locked, of course. I push and jiggle the knob, try my extra keys in the lock, but they don’t fit. And I’m all out of secret keys.

Sarah moves over toward the other door, peers outside, and I go back to the computer keyboard. My hands are shaking, from nerves, from frustration.

When I move my finger over the track pad, a menu comes up in the right-hand corner. I click on the tab that says, “Other Views.”

But a window pops up, asking for another password.

Whatother viewsand why is there another password for those?

The next tab is “Archives.”

But when I click on that, there’s just an empty page. Abi told me, and Detective Crowe, that nothing was recorded and if it is, it’s not accessible to me here.

“There’s someone coming,” says Sarah urgently.

A quick glance at the lobby view reveals Abi walking in the front door.

I quickly log off the computer and grab a bag of dry-cleaning from the rack, feeling Sarah’s gaze as the door to the office opens.

Abi is clearly startled, taking a step back.

“Ms. Lowan,” he says tightly, keeping his composure. “Can I help?”

“Oh,” I say, giving an embarrassed laugh. “I was just grabbing our dry-cleaning. Sorry to intrude. The door was open, and I knew you were out at the funeral. I just got back myself.”

He looks to the door, which clearly, he thought was locked, then to my sister, taking in her obviously-from-out-of-town demeanor, then to me holding the pile of dry-cleaning that is not actually mine.

“I believe that belongs to the Aldridges,” he says stiffly.

I make a show of checking the tag. “Oh,” I say. “You’re right. Thank you, Abi.”

My cheeks are burning, my heart racing, as I hang the bag back up.

---