The Live of My Love Is

"Why is it there?" Jennifer asks, confused, staring at the safety deposit box attached to the back of the cupboard. A custom one, I believe. Its width fits perfectly with the drawer, and I bet its depth is exactly ten inches.

Jennifer tries pulling the door open, but of course, it doesn't budge—it has a password lock. I don't even need to ask if she knows the code.

As I stand, ready to search for a clue, my eyes catch a painting hanging on the wall directly across from me. It depicts a mountain towering above the sea, with its reflection cast onto the water. But the reflection isn't just a mirror image—it forms words, shaping a strange sentence:

"The Key to All is The Life of My Love Is"

It's not a motivational quote. Not a romantic line. It's not even a proper sentence…

"Try your mother's birthday," I tell Jennifer.

"Okay," she obeys despite her confusion. The sound of six digits being pressed is followed by an error beep. "Not working," she reports.

"Try just the four-digit year."

"Still wrong."

"Month and date only?"

"Nothing."

"Year alone?"

"Nope."

"Yours?"

"Nada."

"His?"

"Doesn't work."

"Their wedding date?"

"Still nothing."

Shit. I curse at myself. The painting has to be a clue—it's too odd not to be. "The life of my love"—it should be the birthdate of someone he loved. But who? Did he have an affair? I doubt it, but…

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of Jennifer running out of the room.

"Jen!" I call, quickly following her to the bathroom, where I find her hunched over the sink, throwing up.

"Are you okay?" I ask, concerned. This is the second time today.

She nods weakly. "The coffee still hits me," she says, her face pale.

"You should rest," I suggest.

"No, I want to help you—"

"By resting," I cut her off. "You won't be much help if you're sick."

She doesn't argue, so I guide her upstairs to her old bedroom, helping her lie down.

"Thank you," she murmurs as I make sure she's comfortable.

"Do you need anything?"

She shakes her head.

"I'll leave the office door and this one open. Don't go downstairs alone."

"Hey—"

"Just shout if you need anything," I insist, ignoring her protest.

"Alright, alright," she concedes.

Back in the office, I stand in front of the painting, sipping my coffee, trying to piece my thoughts back together.

Mr. McCourtney definitely had secrets. But an affair? I doubt it. Only boring men have affairs. And this man? He had a hidden safe with an absurdly difficult password. His life was far from boring.

With a deep breath, I shift my focus to the work desk. A laptop sits on it. I power it on—unsurprisingly, it requires a password to log in.

"The Key to All." It must be the same password.

McCourtney had brain cancer. The disease probably affected his memory. That's why he placed that painting there—to remind himself of the password.

"The Life of My Love." What kind of clue is that? The common phrase should be "The Love of My Life," right? That's simple—Sophia, his wife.

I write her name on a piece of paper. A thought crosses my mind.

S is 5, O is 0, Phi is 3.14, A is 4. 503144!

I type the numbers and press enter.

Wrong password.

5034? Wrong.

50ph14?

50PH14?

sophia?

Sophia?

SOPHIA?

All wrong. Expected, but still frustrating.

The safe requires numbers only—so the laptop's password must be numeric, too.

A new idea strikes.

S is the 19th letter, O is the 15th… 191516891. Still wrong.

Maybe it's based on an old phone keypad? S is 7, O is 6, P is 7, H is 4, I is 4, A is 2. 767442.

Nothing.

"Arrgh!" I groan in frustration and grab my phone. Thief can surely hack this.

"Hi, Thief."

"I still don't have a name for the mastermind, okay?" she immediately reports.

"What?!"

"I'm trying, you know! Do you have any idea how many flights were in the area during your six-minute call? Thirty. Eighteen were private—either chartered or personally owned. And do you know how hard it is to track which plane belongs to which company?! And this isn't even my job! Not that I'm asking for a fee, but you're gaining nothing from this heroic act of yours!"

"Hey, hey, calm down, girl. Calm down…"

Thief snorts. I feel guilty. "I'm sorry, okay? I know I'm asking a lot. Forgive me."

"It's not that I mind… it's just…"

"You hate that I'm helping her. I know."

"No… It's just frustrating not being able to give you the answer fast enough."

"Take your time. I won't push you."

"You won't? Then why are you calling me?"

"I…" I hesitate. I've burdened Thief enough. "Nothing. I just wanted to ask about your exhibition. It's tomorrow, right?"

She laughs, then chokes. "Yes. Don't worry. Everything is ready."

"I can't wait to have your paintings on my wall."

"You wouldn't do it."

"I might." She laughs again.

"Thief."

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For all your help. I can't thank you enough."

"Always happy to help you, Score."

After ending the call, I drop my head onto the desk. My gaze falls on the surface—mahogany, covered with a sheet of filmed glass. The glossy surface reflects everything on it. The half-circle print on my mug now looks like a full circle due to the reflection.

I shift my eyes to the paper where I wrote SOPHIA. Absentmindedly, I imagine the word standing in front of a mirror—its reflection.

Wait…

I bolt upright. That's it!

S is 2, O is 0, P is 6, H is 4, I is 1, A is 9. 206419.

I'm about to type it in when another thought strikes me—the clue was worded strangely.

"The Life of My Love" → "The Love of My Life."

Love and Live are switched.

That means… 206419 should be 241069. Or 204619. Or 214609.

I try all three.

Still wrong.

I sigh, sip my coffee, then freeze mid-gulp.

The "the," "of," "my," and "is" stayed in the clue.

Could it be… 216409?

I almost scream when the last combination works.

The laptop unlocks immediately. The desktop is just as neat as the office itself.

I begin my search. If it takes all weekend to dig through every file, so be it. There's no way he'd go through this much trouble to not hide something.

After searching through hidden files, I finally find something.

Two photographs.

One is an old picture of a tiny baby. A baby that looks… lifeless.

I click the second file—it's Jennifer as a teenager.

Why was her photo hidden?

I turn on my mobile hotspot and open his email.

There's only one message in the inbox. Unopened.

It's dated a day after he killed himself.

I click it.

"Who are you?! What have you done with my daughter?! Is she okay?! I will kill you if anything happened to her!!"

@@@@@AUTHOR'S NOTE@@@@@

Who solved the code faster than Scott? 😏 Drop your names in the comments below! 🎉👏