Karen brought it into the kitchen. She went through the pantry drawer and took out a package blade and cut at the tape, carefully unfolding the protective wrapping. She held it in her hand.

It was a cell phone.

Not any phone she’d ever seen before. Thinking back, she remembered that Charlie used a BlackBerry. It had never been found. Karen stared at it—almost afraid to keep it in her hands. “What are you trying to tell me, Charles?”

Finally she pressed the power button. Amazingly, after all this time, the LCD screen sprang to life. HANDSET LOCKED.

Damn. Disappointed, Karen placed it down on the counter.

She ran through a mental file of what Charlie’s password might be. Several possibilities, starting with the obvious. She punched in their anniversary, 0716. The day Harbor opened. His e-mail name. She pressed enter.

Nothing. HANDSET LOCKED.

Shit. Next she punched in 0123, his birthday. Nothing, again. Then 0821. Hers. Wrong—a third time. So Karen tried both of the kids’ birthdays: 0330. Then 1112. No luck. It began to exasperate her. Even if her thinking was right, there could still be a hundred variations. A three-digit number—eliminate the zero for the month. Or a five-digit number—include the year.

Shit.

Karen sat down. She took a notepad from the counter. It had to be one of them. She prepared to go through them all.

Then it hit her. What else did Charlie say that day? Something about “You’re still beautiful, Karen.”

Something about “the color of my baby’s eyes.”

Charlie’s Baby.

On a whim Karen punched in the word—the color of his “baby.” Emberglow.

To her shock, the LOCKED icon on the readout disappeared.