Inside, under a layer of old greeting cards, was a single beige USB drive.

And across the plastic casing, in black permanent marker, in my sister’s hard, unmistakable handwriting, were four words. V. DO NOT TOUCH.

I don’t fully know why I took it. Curiosity, maybe. Or something older and more instinctive than curiosity — some part of me that had spent twelve years being quietly undermined and had finally caught the scent of the reason.

I slipped it into my purse and finished the closet and drove home, and I had no idea, not the smallest inkling, that I was carrying the autopsy of my own marriage in the front pocket of my bag.

It would take me five weeks to get into it. The drive was encrypted, layered, protected the way you protect something you are genuinely afraid of being found.

I am a nurse, not a hacker; I had to be patient, and careful, and I had to teach myself a great deal.