I walked past him to the keypad on the front jamb.

The code had been Faye’s birthday for twelve years.

It was gone.

In its place, when I tried the last four digits of Shawn’s cell phone on a cold hunch, the lock clicked open.

That was the exact moment I stopped trying to reason with anyone on that porch.

There was something almost obscene in that small detail, and it told me more about my son-in-law than the moving van did.

A man does not change a door code by accident.