On the attached page, the line that said “self-inflicted death” was folded at the corner. Dog-eared. Like something he came back to.
My stomach dropped.
The security system manual was on the bottom shelf. On the inside of the back cover, in pencil: 4711. Next to it, in his handwriting: duress code.
I remembered. When we set the alarm code after we bought the house, Daniel asked me for a number I would never forget. I said 4711 without thinking. He laughed. Who remembers a code like that, he said.
I took pictures. The policy. The signature date. The folded clause. The number in the manual. The cloud backup icon started spinning.
The shower stopped.
I put everything back in the same order. The edge of a page cut a white line across my finger. I stood there looking at it. I couldn’t walk out there and ask him now. He had a fresh cut on his right hand and the pills were in my pocket. If he figured out I’d seen this, I was never getting near another person again.
