“It’s about time,” Lydia added, sipping her Chardonnay. “She’s almost pleasant when she isn’t whining about her ‘potential.’”
I kept my head down, staring at my plate of plain rice. Let them believe it, I thought. Let them get comfortable in their cruelty.
But while my body was submissive, my mind was a sponge. I began to map the digital footprint of the Thorne family. I watched through the crack of the door as Arthur entered his passwords into his office computer—he was arrogant enough to use the same string of numbers for everything: Kyle’s birthday.
I waited for the moments of carelessness.
One afternoon, Lydia left her smartphone on the patio table to chase after a delivery driver. I didn’t hesitate. I had thirty seconds. I didn’t look at her photos or her social media. I went straight to her Notes app. There it was—a list of “Confidential Contacts” and login credentials for their shared investment accounts. I didn’t have time to copy them, so I used my old laptop’s camera to snap a grainy photo of the screen.
