The heavy kettle on my stove began to whistle, a low, thin sound that cut through the silence of my small kitchen. I slid the laptop closer to the edge of the laminate counter, my finger hovering over the return key. My eyes felt dry and heavy from four hours of sleep, but the light from the screen kept me awake, casting a pale glow over the salt shaker and the half-empty sugar bowl.
I tried her high school mascot, then the street name of her first apartment in Columbus, then the year she made partner at her corporate consulting firm. Each attempt ended with a red warning box that flickered on the screen, telling me my access was restricted.
I set my mug of black tea down on a cork coaster. I thought back to the summer of 2013, the year Victoria bought a golden retriever puppy named Barnaby just to show up her neighbors on the bridal committee. She had given the dog away to a shelter six months later because she said his hair ruined the weave of her wool rugs.
