Richard had designated the mahogany panled library as his temporary command center for the weekend. I knew this because he had loudly boasted earlier about needing a secure space to handle international shipping crisis, which I now knew was just a cover for dodging frantic calls from his creditors.
The heavy door to the library was closed but unlocked. I slipped inside and shut it firmly behind me, plunging the room into a heavy, suffocating silence. The space smelled of expensive cigars and aged leather, a pathetic attempt by my father to emulate the billionaires he so desperately wanted to impress. Sitting on the center of the massive desk was his laptop.
I did not need his password. I did not need his permission. As a sitting justice of the New York State Supreme Court, I possessed a level of digital clearance that my father could not even fathom. I reached into the hidden pocket of my black dress and pulled out my keys. Attached to the metal ring was a small unassuming black plastic rectangle.
