When the locksmith installed the keypad, he’d shown me how to set up different codes for different people. “That way,” he’d said, tapping his own phone screen, “you’ll always know who came in and when. Contractors get their own. Family gets their own. You can delete any of them with one tap.”
I’d set up three codes.
Mine.
One for the contractor finishing the back porch.
And one emergency code.
I’d given that third one to exactly one person.
“Hold on,” I told the dispatcher.
My hands were shaking so badly that I mistyped my password twice. Rachel took the phone from me, entered it, and handed it back.
The app opened to a simple list.
Side Door — Unlocked — 10:21 AM.
And beneath it, in small gray letters, the name of the code that had been used.
Lauren — Emergency.
I read it three times.
Then I set the phone face down on Rachel’s kitchen counter, because I could not look at it anymore.
