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I knew how wrong it was for me to invade Remington’s privacy. There was no reason I needed to know what was behind the door, but what if he didn’t come back? What if…
I raced down to the kitchen and looked around for anything I could use to open the lock. When I got lucky and found a large paperclip in a drawer, I ran back upstairs before I lost my nerve.
It took me far longer than it would someone who was truly skilled at lock picking, but eventually, I heard the satisfying click I’d been waiting for, and the door opened. The office looked much like the rest of the house. It was decorated in the style from the early twentieth century. The walls and antique furniture were dark greens and blues, and the room contained more bookshelves, the kind with glass doors that lifted and slid into pockets.
A laptop sat on the desk. It was open, but the screen was dark. There were papers scattered on the desktop. Did I dare investigate further? I had no idea when Remington would be home. He could come in any minute, and if he caught me… I remembered him telling me he expected me to do what he said and threatening to punish me. What would he do if he found me here? Killing me was a real possibility. Was it worth that risk to know his secrets?
Without making a conscious decision, I took the few steps I needed to reach the edge of the desk. I picked up an envelope addressed to Remington Theriot. Why did that name sound familiar?
Oh shit. His family had been suspects in the brutal murder of three men a year or so ago. It was even in the news up in Birmingham. I always paid attention to news from Louisiana, a habit I’d picked up from my mom who’d grown up in Lafayette. Theriot was a common name, but I doubted there were that many Remington Theriots.
He and his relatives had been acquitted, but most people still believed they’d done it. Shit, what had I gotten myself involved in?
I sat down in the desk chair. It was amazingly comfortable, but I wouldn’t have expected anything less. I touched the keypad on the laptop, sliding my finger across until the screen lit up and I was confronted with a box asking for a password.
Was I really going to try to guess his password? It was probably some super secure jumble of letters and numbers that I would never come up with. But I might as well try. I’d already gotten my fingerprints on the laptop. Would they disappear if I wiped it down? What was the chance anyone would check? This wasn’t an episode of CSI. I needed to calm down.
No, I needed to get up, walk away, and never enter this room again.
I typed in Remington. Of course that didn’t work. It was way too obvious. I didn’t know his birthday, and I doubted he’d use his brother’s name or Tony the monkey’s, but I tried those options anyway. Wrong.
I thought about what I knew about him and suddenly had an inspiration. I quickly typed in Bayou Melody, the name of the piece of music on the stand by his cello. This time instead of the immediate error message, the lock screen went away, and I was in.
I looked on the desktop and saw a folder labeled Projects. What if I opened it and discovered he was an architect or a marketing analyst or something equally benign?
I laughed at myself. No way in hell was that the case. If it was, why wouldn’t he just answer me when I asked him what he did?
I clicked on the folder as I tried to listen carefully for any sign of Remington’s return. I’d have to run if I heard the door open.
There were lots more folders inside the first. As I read their names, I saw one that made a knot form in my stomach. It was labeled Bob Gayle.
The man had been charged with multiple counts of murder. He had duped hundreds of elderly people into purchasing prescriptions they needed directly from him. He sold them cheap drugs, but most of them were placebo or far lower strength than advertised. Numerous people died or had chronic conditions worsen. He was also suspected of being connected to other drug rings in Louisiana. Surely Remington hadn’t been working with him. He couldn’t be that evil.
When I opened the folder, there were several documents inside. One was filled with notes and records of conversations. There was another that was password protected. I shivered as I contemplated what could be worse than the things I’d already seen. If he put the information I’d already found where anyone who got into his computer could see it, what could be scary enough that it needed to be hidden behind yet another password?
