His phone.

The safe in his office.

The laptop he guarded so carefully.

He had reused that one sequence for years, too arrogant or too lazy to believe anyone would ever think to try it, and the sequence was the date of our wedding anniversary.

A man who would launder money under his own daughter’s bed had never once imagined that the wife whose anniversary he’d turned into a password might be the one to open the box.

It is a small thing and it is the whole of him.