One Good Reason
A Boston Love Story
Julie Johnson
Contents
Copyright
Also by Julie Johnson
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Playlist
Copyright © 2016 Julie Johnson
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, product names, or named features are only used for reference, and are assumed to be property of their respective owners.
Cover Design by Julie Johnson
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ISBN: 978-0-9965108-4-4
Also by Julie Johnson
Standalones:
Like Gravity
Say the Word
Erasing Faith
The Boston Love Stories:
Not You It’s Me
Cross the Line
One Good Reason
For the lonely girls
with big dreams
and broken hearts.
It gets better.
“Don’t you understand, Tink? You mean more to me than anything in this whole world!”
Peter Pan to Tinkerbell, Peter Pan
Prologue
The City
Let’s get something straight right off the bat — it’s not called “Beantown” or “The Bean” or “The Town.” (I’m looking at you, Ben Affleck.) It’s sure as shit not called “The Hub” or the “City on the Hill.” I don’t know where those ass-backwards nicknames came from and, frankly, I don’t want to know.
It’s called Boston.
Sure, locals will pronounce this moniker with varying degrees of emphasis on the first vowel. (If you’re from Southie, it’s “Bah-ston,” while if you’re from the North Shore, it’s a very proper, clearly annunciated “Bos-ton,” which you say with one-pinky in the air as you sip your seven-dollar chai tea latte and wax poetic about that one time you saw Blue Man Group on your seventeenth birthday in the big bad city.) Accents aside, if you call my hometown anything else, these same locals will look at you with well-practiced New Englander scorn.
What can I say? We aren’t the warmest bunch.
The second thing you should know — ninety percent of the people who claim they’re from Boston actually aren’t. They, in fact, live in affluent little suburbs with a median household income of a cool million, attend prosperous private schools, and grow up to be doctors and lawyers, just as their parents intended. (I see you, Newton.) If you’re really from the city — and I mean born and bred with the Charles on your left and the Atlantic on your right — you’re probably more like me.
A little rough around the edges. Quick to call bullshit when you see it. Borderline addicted to Dunkin Donuts coffee. And pretty fucking tired of people hating on Tom Brady just because he happens to be the best quarterback in the history of football.
You know that “Boston Strong” is more than a sticker on the back of a soccer mom’s SUV — it’s a 200-yard stretch of Boylston Street where terror filled the air one April afternoon. You understand that the Red Sox are, and always will be, better than the Yankees, no matter our batting averages. You realize there’s a certain amount of pride that comes in shoveling your car out of a six-foot mound of snow only to have the plows cover it over again ten minutes later. And you’re downright certain that no other place in the world will ever hold a candle to the beauty of our skyline when the sun streaks pink over the water.
This is my city.
I’ve lived here. I’ve grown here. I’ve bled and sweat and wept here.
I’ve walked its every winding, nonsensical avenue, from the sloping streets of Beacon Hill to the aromatic alleys of the North End. I’ve pushed past tourists crowding Quincy Market and weaved through shoppers on Newbury street. I’ve run the paths along the murky Charles River at sunset and stumbled home from the neon-lit bars outside Fenway Park at sunrise.
This city isn’t just my home.
It’s the heart beating in my chest. The blood thrumming through my veins.
I am Boston. Boston is me.
And, so help me god, I’m going to take it back from those who’d seek to poison it.
That’s not a promise — it’s a vow.
1
The Criminal Mastermind
They know me only as “Clover.”
Which, frankly, kind of sucks as code names go. I mean… you’d think they could’ve at least picked something badass.
Wonder Woman? That’s a cool-as-shit nickname.
Elektra? Practically reeks of danger and mystery.
Black Widow? Come on, no one fucks with that girl.
Catwoman? …Okay, well, to be honest I’ve always kind of thought Catwoman was just code for some crazy, perpetually-single girl with one too many felines and one too few men in her life.
But, kitties aside, you’d think the FBI could’ve come up with something a little better than Clover when they christened me last year.
Clovers are cute.
I take umbrage at being cute. I’m a god-damned criminal mastermind. Criminal masterminds are not cute.
Except Loki.
Shit, Loki is cute as hell.
Evidently, my name was inspired by the virus I developed two years ago. Every hacker — correction, every good hacker — has a custom-built style of code. A brand. A trademark.
Like artists, we all have our own quirks and identifying characteristics. Things we leave behind after we’re done creeping around inside a computer network.
Mine is a virus.
It’s lethal once it’s past the firewalls, embedding itself in the foundation and branching out in four directions, in the shape of… you guessed it… a four-leaf clover.
Hence the nickname.
It’s probably a good thing — if they knew my real name I’d be in federal prison. Or worse: chained to a government cubicle somewhere, working some hack job at the NSA. Thanks but no thanks. I’m good right where I am — a fugitive, perhaps, but a happy one.
Well, mostly happy.
Fifty percent happy.
Fine. Forty percent.
Final offer: one quarter happy, three quarters miserable?
Okay. Whatever. I’m not happy at all.
So?
Thing is, I don’t really believe in “happy.” People who say they’ve found true happiness — a mythical, eternal state of bliss — are either delusional or drugged out of their minds on those bath salts that inspire cannibalism. Perpetual joy is about as real as the fairy unicorns I used to play with in my backyard at age four.
Life is one long series of p
unches to the gut. You either learn how to duck, or you figure out how to hit back. I’ve been hitting back so long, at this point I’ve got a mean left hook and more than my fair share of scars.
My fingers fly over the keyboard so fast I know they’d be nothing but a blur if I looked down, but my eyes are otherwise occupied — fixed firmly on the screen in front of me as I maneuver around a particularly difficult firewall, making sure to cloak my code so they can’t detect a breach. Last time I did this, I was a bit careless — read: cocky — and tripped up some of their internal safeguards. Not my smartest move of all time.
Turns out, the Feds don’t throw a piñata party when people hack their secure, top-secret servers. Whoopsie.
There are a few more security layers in place than last time, but as hacks go it’s not a particularly difficult one. Not for me, anyway. Government agencies are freakishly easy to crack into, if you’re fluent in Python and know how to find even a tiny fissure in their seemingly impenetrable networks.
Firewalls are like thick-stitched wool blankets, insulating a server from anyone outside. Code — even the encrypted, super secure code used by the FBI — is just like that woven fabric: over time, like any old blanket, tiny pulls and snags appear. Glitches. Inconsistencies. Insecurities.
Run your hands over the wool long enough, you’ll find one eventually. A few tugs of a loose thread and the whole damn thing unravels to create a hole big enough for me to stroll inside, put my feet up on their metaphorical coffee table, and peruse their files at my leisure.
It’s called a backdoor hack.
And it happens to be my specialty.
The goal is remarkably simple: get in, get what you need, and get out without leaving any traces. (That last part is often easier said than done.)
I reach out blindly to grab the can of Diet Coke on my left as my gaze scans the stream of content. A few more clacks of my fingers against the keys and I’m past the final firewall. I’m in. The unmistakable round seal glows bright from my monitor — blue and gold, bearing a logo of weighted scales and the words FIDELITY, BRAVERY, INTEGRITY. For a few seconds, I let the familiar rush of endorphins wash over me. There’s nothing like it in the world — adrenaline mixed with danger, and just a hint of pride in my own skills.
My lips twitch.
Never let it be said that I don’t enjoy a little backdoor action.
(I’m talking about computers. Get your mind out of the gutter.)
I click through from the desktop to the hard drive and begin my search, just as I’ve done every few months for the past three years, since the day I learned how to hack. Most of the files I’ve gained access to are encrypted or heavily redacted — with my system, which is in sore need of an upgrade, I’m lucky I was even able to crack into a lower-level consul in the federal building in Government Center. Hacking a top FBI official’s computer would give me better security clearance in spades… but doing so would require a much bigger server than my four-year-old laptop possesses, along with something a bit more stable than my loft’s occasionally spotty WiFi coverage.
One day, maybe I’ll be able to afford an upgrade.
I type a familiar name into the search queue and hold my breath as the results fill the screen. Or, should I say, result.
One.
A single file — ninety percent redacted, one hundred percent useless to me.
Nothing new. Not since last time.
Not since all the times before last time either.
The breath slips from my lips, a gust of disappointment I can’t contain. I should be used to it by now — this life without answers. But no matter how many times I do this, no matter how many times I’m let down by the dead ends in that file, I can’t stomp out the tiny flare of inextinguishable hope that one day, I’ll hack my way in here and find something new. A new lead. A new hope. A new answer.
It’s almost certainly a lost cause. A sane person would give up.
I never said I was sane. And after twenty years of wondering, there’s no way I’m going to quit now. Some day, I’ll find out what happened that cold December night.
My eyes close as memories dance across my mind — faint and flickering, like a candle throwing shadows in a dark room.
My winter ballet recital. I’m dressed as a SugarPlum Fairy.
Mom kissing my cheek, handing me a bouquet of roses.
Dad scooping me up into his arms, tickling the breath out of me as we walk home on snowy streets.
Pain swamps me — I snap my eyes open, hoping it will drive back the memories, but it’s no use. I can still feel the way their mittened hands engulfed mine as they swung me between them, how my boots skimmed across the thin layer of flurries coating the sidewalks.
Zoe, our little Sugar Plum! Can you believe Santa will be here in the morning?
We were laughing. Happy. Mouths open to the sky, snowflakes on our tongues. Christmas decorations on every corner. Roses cradled in the crook of an arm, cheeks red with cold and eyes bright with love.
It was the best day.
Until, quite suddenly, with no warning at all… the pure white snow was stained red with trampled rose petals and blood… and it became the worst day of my life.
My phone vibrates loudly on the table beside me, pulling me out of my most familiar nightmare. When I catch sight of the name flashing across the screen, I sigh deeply. I debate not answering, but I know he’ll just keep calling.
There’s no avoiding Luca. Persistent bastard.
“Hello?”
“Got a job for you.” The gruff, familiar voice cracks over the line.
“I’m listening.”
“Lancaster Consolidated.” There’s a pause. “You heard of it?”
I roll my eyes. Lancaster Consolidated controls almost all of the foreign oil and natural gas shipments coming in and out of New England, not to mention several dozen steel factories scattered across the continental United States. They build everything from airplanes to railroads. Everyone in the country’s heard of Lancaster Consolidated.
“Give me a little credit, Luke.”
“Don’t get your panties in a twist. It’s a valid question.”
“I’m not wearing any panties,” I throw back at him.
A laugh rumbles across the line — it’s low and it sounds a little like he’s trying to muffle it, but it’s definitely a laugh. I feel my eyes widen slightly. Luca is not typically one to tip his hand when it comes to emotions. That’s part of the reason we’ve managed to stay friends all these years.
No touchy-feely bullshit.
“Just stop being a priss for two seconds and listen to me,” he says, abruptly back to his normal, caustic self. “Last week Lancaster Consolidated closed two of their biggest factories — the one in Lynn, plus another one out in the sticks of Western Mass somewhere — and put about ten thousand people out of jobs.”
“I heard. It was all over the news.” Frown lines crease my forehead. “Apparently it’s cheaper to farm the work overseas than keep the production lines on American soil.”
“Yeah, well, did you hear Lancaster is refusing to pay out pensions for ninety percent of those workers?”
“That’s impossible.” My frown lines deepen. “In fact, that’s illegal.”
“Well, illegal or not, apparently Robert Lancaster found some loophole in the contract. Says he’s bankrupt and can’t afford to pay — not even two weeks’ severance. Even though everyone knows he’s sitting on millions in a tax shelter somewhere.”
“What a prick!”
“That’s why I’m calling.”
“I’d love to pin Lancaster to the wall as much as anyone, trust me.” I sigh and rub my temple. “But I don’t know what you think I can do about this, Luca. I’ve already tried to crack into the LC network remotely, remember? Last spring, when that oil rig went down in the Atlantic and all those crew members died, I wanted proof Lancaster gave the order for them to set out in a fucking hurricane to make his shipping quotas. I was going to
show the world the asshole signed the death warrants of thirty good men.” My fingers curl into fists, remembering. “But… It. Didn’t. Work. Whatever software they’re using was custom built from the inside-out, probably to cloak their shady financial shit from the IRS. There’s a massive firewall. And, let me tell you, in this case — size matters.”
“Babe.” There’s a hint of a laugh in his voice. “Pretty sure size always matters.”
“Yeah, well, this code is complex. I’d be impressed by whoever built it if I weren’t so fucking annoyed.” I lean back in my chair and glare up at the ceiling. “Even if I wanted to help, there’s nothing I can do and you know it.”
There’s a pause. “You could hack it on-site.”
“Oh, sure, I’ll just stroll right into the offices downtown and ask politely if I can use one of their computers, pretty please with sugar on top?” I snort. “Oh! Maybe if I wear a low-cut shirt and bat my eyelashes while pinky-swearing not to cause any trouble, they’ll let me into their network.”
“You — always there with the bitchy answers,” Luca mutters, exasperated.
“And you — always there with the unreasonable requests,” I counter, equally pissed.
Why does he always expect the impossible from me? Since the first day we met, two lost kids picking pockets and sleeping on street corners, he’s pushed me to ask for more — from strangers with fat wallets, from the system, from the entire goddamned world.
Take more. Make more. Be more.
Asshat.
“Zoe.”
I go still. Luca never uses my first name — it’s always priss or babe or some equally mocking nickname I pretend to hate but secretly find charming. If he’s using my real name, he’s more serious about this than I thought.
I sigh. “What?”
“Some of those people worked there fifty, sixty years. They don’t know how to do anything else. They won’t find new jobs, won’t get hired anywhere new. They were counting on those pensions to carry them for the rest of their lives — now they’ve got nothing. We don’t help them… who will?”
One Good Reason (A Boston Love Story Book 3) Page 1
