“The one Abigail thought she destroyed.”

The red light flashed faster, casting a bloody glow over the cold stone room.

The percentage began to drop.

Forty-eight percent.

Forty-five percent.

“We have to bypass it,” I said, my fingers flying over the keyboard.

The keys clicked rapidly in the quiet room.

The computerized voice repeated its warning.

“Override in progress. Time remaining: sixty seconds.”

I looked at the screen, a bead of sweat tracing down my temple.

The numbers were falling too fast.

“Alana,” Ana said, her hand tight on my shoulder.

“You can do this. Think like Abigail.”

I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second.

What would Abigail do?

She wouldn’t just build a trap.

She would build a back door.

A secondary phrase.

Something only she and I knew.

The memory flashed in my mind.

A rainy afternoon in Fremont, fifteen years ago.

A story she told me about the wild agave that grew in the rocky soil of the ranch.

“They survive because they store everything inside,” she had said.

“Even when the fire comes, the heart remains.”