Carrson.
I press enter, but nothing changes. The cursor continues its slow, steady pulse, unimpressed. Next, I try Ashford. Then University, Congress, Senator, House, every word I can think of that’s connected to him, to history, to this place.
The cursor blinks, like it’s mocking me.
I drag a hand across my forehead as I force myself to think instead of guess. It has to be obvious. It has to matter. My gaze drifts, unfocused, past the desk, the walls, the door, until it catches on the doorknob, worn smooth from years of use.
I think about the portrait in the hall. The man with the deep, dark eyes. All the generations.
I type it in slowly:
1—
8—
1—
3—
I double-check it, not wanting to get it wrong.
1813.
The year this house was built. I remember seeing it on the sign out front when I tried to get into the party, right by the throw-up bush.
Done typing, I hit ENTER.
For one terrible second, nothing happens.
Then the screen changes. The blinking cursor disappears, replaced by a single line of text:
ACCESS GRANTED
A beat later, another line appears under it.
WELCOME, CARRSON
A thrill runs through me.
So itishis.
I pull the chair out quickly, the legs scraping against the floor, before I lower myself into it. The cold wood presses against the backs of my thighs, startling me, and only then do I remember I’m wearing nothing but the oversized T-shirt. The fabric shifts as I sit, riding higher than I expect, and a flicker of awareness goes through me, of skin, of exposure, of where I am.
I tug the hem down, smoothing it over my legs, more for the illusion of coverage than anything else. Then I lean closer to read the screen.
There’s a list of files under his name, arranged in a neat column. Most are generic at first glance.
MESSAGES
CALENDAR
ADMINISTRATION
SCHEDULE
ACCOUNTS
PROPERTY HOLDINGS
