I couldn’t sleep.

Sometime after midnight I slipped into Porter’s old home office, hunting anything that might be leverage.

Behind a false panel in the wainscoting — a hiding place he had shown me, laughing, in our first year of marriage — was a small safe.

Inside: three leather journals, an encrypted flash drive, and a letter to me wrapped around a portable media player.

I turned the player on, and when the screen woke, the breath left my body.