Fidelity Files

by Jessica Brody

"Parker Colman!" I shouted out, completely disgusted. "I tested him in Vegas the other day, and when he failed he practically attacked me on the elevator."

  "So you think it was him?" John asked purposefully.

  "It has to be. He came after me like a psychopath!"

  "And he can afford a scheme like this?"

  John's question confused me. All of my clients were wealthy. When I discussed my fees and expenses, I never heard anyone complain or question the cost. Sure, sometimes I took on a few pro bono assignments, as favors to women who were desperately in need of some sort of guidance but just couldn't afford to pay for it, like in the case of Rani and Clayton. But for the most part my clients always seemed more than willing to pay whatever price to get the answers and peace of mind they were looking for. Money was never an issue.

  The truth was priceless.

  That's the way I'd always seen it.

  "What do you mean?" I asked.

  "I mean," John began, "spy photographers? Anonymous Web sites? Mass e-mail circulation? This kind of scheme takes some backing. Think about it. This isn't an amateur move. This is like national exposure. Someone definitely means business, and they've got to have a hell of a lot of extra cash lying around to make sure it gets done. But I guess anyone who can afford to hire you..."

  I shook my head. "No, he didn't. I mean, his fiancée didn't hire me. Her father did. I'm not sure if Parker has any money at all. I think that was one of the reasons her dad suspected him in the first place. That he was just after the family trust fund."

  John nodded. "Hmmm."

  And the more I thought about it, I realized that some of these pictures were taken before Parker Colman's assignment. Like the one of me filling up my gas tank on the way to my poker lesson. That poker lesson was in preparation for Parker's assignment in Vegas. So it couldn't possibly have been him.

  "So back to square one?" John asked as I walked him to the front door.

  I sighed. "Yeah, I guess."

  He gave me a long hug and squeezed me just the slightest bit tighter than he normally did. "Just think," he offered sympathetically. "This guy has got something to lose. Something big. Probably more than most."

  "Yeah," I agreed. "But you have to swear you won't tell anyone," I urged him before I closed the door. "Especially not Sophie or Zoë. Somehow I don't think they would see it the way you do."

  "I won't," John promised.

  "You're sworn to absolute secrecy now."

  He nodded. "Taking it to the grave, my dear."

  "Good."

  As I closed the door I immediately starting racking my brain. My mental database of names that seemed to go on forever. Every one containing a different story. A different motivation. A different interpretation of the word love.

  And yet, they all blended together in my mind.

  "National exposure," I said aloud.

  What a nightmare.

  In my quest to reveal the truth at any cost, I had blindly failed to consider an entirely different truth, one that now seemed more obvious than ever: Revenge is apparently priceless as well.

  15

  Universal Surrender

  LATER THAT night, I sat staring at my computer screen, waiting for some brilliant idea to come to me so I could figure out how to identify the still-anonymous owner of that very annoying Web site, when I heard the front door unlock and open.

  I sat very still in my seat. The pictures of me on the screen stared back at me. Mocking me. Laughing at my misfortune.

  And now whoever had taken them not only knew where I lived and where I got coffee, he also had a key to my front door!

  But how? How would he have a key?

  I heard footsteps walking through the living room, echoing on the hardwood floors and approaching the hallway. I began to panic. I had pepper spray and a stun gun, but it was in my bedroom. Where I always assumed I would be during a situation like this. After all, isn't that where the attacks always take place in the horror films? When the victim is lying in bed? So naturally I would keep them in my nightstand. A hell of a lot of good they did me now.

  I could hear the intruder coming down the hallway. I reached for the cordless landline phone on my desk but the cradle was empty.

  Damn! I must have left it on the coffee table.

  I was trapped. If I tried to make a dash to the bedroom to grab the stun gun, I would surely come face-to-face with him. And if he had a weapon (which he most definitely would) he would be able to get to me first.

  I eyed the window in front of me. I was on the top floor of the building. Four floors stood between me and the ground. I would never survive a jump.

  More footsteps.

  Then I remembered a fire escape. It was actually outside of the bedroom window. Only a few short, cliff-hanger steps away. I could grab on to the drainpipe hanging from the roof and shimmy my way to the bedroom window. Then, once on the fire escape, I could climb safely to the ground.

  I could hear the footsteps getting closer. If they were looking for me, they would check the guest room first before coming into the office. I had approximately ten seconds...twelve if they made a stop at the hallway closet.

  I quietly stood up from my chair and reached out in front of me, pulling the window open. I knocked the edge of the screen with the palm of my hand and it willingly popped out of place. I watched it float slowly to the ground, and then heard the small clank of it hitting the sidewalk. I swallowed hard, confident that I would make a much bigger "clank" should I follow it to the ground. The space the open window provided me was small at best. It would be a tight squeeze. I stuck the top half of my body out, looking for something to step onto.

  That's when I heard the footsteps behind me, entering the office.

  I froze.

  "You never called me back yesterday, bi-atch!" I heard Zoë's shrill voice call from across the room and reverberate through the open window.

  I let out an audible sigh of relief and quickly pulled myself back inside, dusting the dirt from the windowsill off my hands.

  "What are you doing?" she asked, eyeing my current state.

  I looked uneasily back toward the window. "I thought I heard a dying bird," I replied blankly.

  "And you were going to give it mouth-to-mouth?"

  I let out a nervous laugh and quickly reached over to shut my laptop, hiding the photographic evidence of my job from Zoë's view. "I forgot I gave you a key," I said, immediately regretting the day I readily offered free entrance to my home to both Zoë and Sophie.

  She shrugged and exited the office, making her way down the hallway and into the kitchen. I followed after her. She picked up a can of Coke Zero that she had placed on the counter and took a sip. Then she grabbed a sealed Pop-Tart from inside her purse. "Mind if I toast this?"

  I plopped down on the couch and flipped on the TV. "Fine," I said, still trying to calm my nerves from my near near-death experience.

  "I bet you haven't called Sophie yet, either, huh?"

  I reluctantly told her that I hadn't.

  It wasn't that I didn't want to call Sophie. I just hadn't had a chance to think about my personal life ever since my secretive professional life had been plastered on the Internet for anyone and everyone to see.

  Zoë threw her frosted Pop-Tart into the toaster oven and leaned her elbows on the kitchen counter. "You know, you really hurt her feelings. She was just trying to help."

  I glared at her. "Since when do you take sides?"

  "I'm not taking sides. I'm just trying to smooth things over so I don't have to be in the middle of this. Plus, you're usually the one she calls with all her neuroses, and now I've become your involuntary replacement. And honestly, I don't think I can handle the job much longer."

  It was true. Sophie did usually call me first when she had a problem or a breakdown or just to vent. And suddenly I really missed getting those late-night phone calls. And what I wouldn't give to be able to tell Sophie everything that had happened to me over the past few days: t
hat beautiful man I met on the plane; that god-awful Web site; my elevator attack. Or even if I couldn't tell her the real versions of all those stories, at least I'd have someone to tell something to. Suddenly my life felt incomplete without Sophie in it, neuroses and all.

  "She hurt my feelings too, you know."

  The toaster dinged. Zoë removed her Pop-Tart, placed it on a paper towel, and came and sat down next to me on the couch. "I know. Everyone hurt everyone's feelings. But can't we all just forget about it and move on with our lives like adults?" She took a bite.

  I watched her. "This is coming from someone who's eating a fruit-filled toaster pastry with blue frosting."

  "It's their newest flavor," Zoë defended. "And I didn't have time to eat dinner."

  "Mmmm. Nutritious."

  "C'mon," she pleaded. "Be the bigger person. You know how sensitive Sophie gets."

  I crossed my arms and stared at the blank TV screen. "I'm always the bigger person. For once I'd like her to apologize."

  "She had a point," Zoë said softly.

  My head darted around to face her so fast I swore I heard a small pop in my neck. "What?"

  "This prolonged dating drought of yours, Jen? You're obviously afraid of something."

  "My work keeps me very—"

  "Busy, we know." Zoë took another bite and then offered it to me.

  I shook my head.

  "But I'm sorry. No one's that busy. There has to be another reason."

  The lies started swirling around in my head. Just like they always did. A slot machine of excuses. Which jackpot winner will it be this time? No time for men? No interest in men? A desire to focus on my career? Maybe even a casual joke about after listening to all of my friends' scary dating stories the whole thing seemed pretty pointless anyway.

  But the wheels kept spinning. The lies kept whooshing by faster than I could reach out and grab one. It was as if suddenly, after a lifetime full of easy bluffs and effortless stories, it wasn't so easy anymore.

  I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out.

  "Well?" Zoë demanded, tossing the last of her Pop-Tart into her mouth. She scrunched up the paper towel, stood up, and walked into the kitchen to throw it in the trash compactor.

  I remained silent, hoping my lack of response might throw her off and cause her to lose focus. Then maybe she'd change the subject.

  "What's this?" she asked, examining a small white card on the kitchen counter.

  I guess it worked.

  I sat up straighter and craned my neck to see over the top of the couch. "What?"

  "Jamie Richards," Zoë read aloud from the card.

  I slumped back down. "Oh, just some guy I met on the plane. Marta must have found the card in my jeans pocket when she was doing laundry."

  Zoë raced back to the couch and jumped into the seat next to me. "A guy? Do tell."

  I shrugged. "Nothing to tell. We met, we talked, we landed. That was about it."

  "But you're gonna call him?"

  I shook my head decisively. "No. Why would I?"

  "Was he cute?"

  As soon as the question left her mouth, a tiny smirk snuck across my lips. In fact, I hadn't even realized it had appeared until I heard Zoë exclaim, "Oh! He is! You can see it all over your face!"

  I quickly erased the smirk. "What are you talking about? He was funny. That's all."

  "Cute and funny. Now you have to call him."

  I shot her a skeptical look. "Why?"

  Zoë instantly turned intellectual. It's the expression she gets right before she's about to impart some long-lost wisdom to you that she's convinced will change your life forever and for that you should be both eternally grateful and desperately trying to figure out how you ever survived this far without it. "Because you just don't pass up fucking awesome guys, that's why! It's bad karma."

  "Bad karma?" I challenged.

  "Yes. The universe has sent you a gift. A hot, available man. And when the universe sends you a gift like that, you take it. Trust me, you do not want to piss off the universe. Because when you fuck with the universe, the universe fucks back."

  "Well, if I don't want him, can't I just re-gift him like all other gifts I don't want? Maybe I'll give him to you."

  Zoë shot me a warning look. I took that as a no. "Don't fuck with the universe, Jen. Don't even joke about fucking with the universe. You'll never win that game." Then she stood up, grabbed her Coke Zero from the coffee table, and took a long last gulp.

  I smiled politely. "Whatever you say, Zo."

  "Okay, well, if you're not dreadfully afraid of the unforgiving, vengeful god of hot men, then at least be afraid of me. If you don't call him I'm going to hunt you down and stuff you in my trunk. Don't forget: I know where you live and I have your key!"

  I wiped the blue Pop-Tart crumbs from her seat onto the floor as I tried to hide the small shiver that crept up my spine. "Yes, how could I forget?"

  Zoë opened the front door wide enough to fit an entire elephant parade through. She paused for effect, looked me directly in the eyes as if she were about to finally divulge the secret ingredient in Coca-Cola to a room full of inquiring minds, and then said, "And call Sophie!" before slamming the door dramatically behind her. Zoë had always been a fan of grand entrances, and as it would seem, exits as well.

  ON ANY normal day her dramatic departure would have left me introspectively reprimanding myself for waiting so long to call my best friend after a stupid fight in a bar, and then finally reaching for the phone, dialing Sophie's number, and humbly commencing the lengthy exchange of mutual apologies and the incessant back-and -forth battle of blame ownership.

  But this wasn't a normal day.

  And come to think of it: What is a normal day for me, anyway?

  I rationalized that I would be in a much better mental and emotional place to effectively resolve everything with Sophie after I had successfully resolved everything else in my life... namely, capturing my unknown, evil Web site avenger.

  And while Zoë had been going on and on, waxing poetic about the laws of the universe with respect to relationships, I had been having a revelation.

  Okay, "revelation" is a very strong word. Let's just call it an idea. An idea that for the first time since I saw my own face on that computer screen gave me a tiny ounce of hope.

  I returned to my office and flipped open my laptop again. On the screen was the same useless page of information that I had been staring at for a full hour.

  This Web site belongs to... "None of your damn business" is what it should have said. Because that's practically what it implied.

  But now, as I looked at it again, with my new mini-revelation fresh in my mind, it suddenly didn't seem so useless anymore. I scrolled down to the bottom of the who-is page that John had directed me to and found a line item that read "Name Server," followed by a name: "NS2.Fiztech.net." Now, I had certainly never been a computer genius, and ever since the invention of the Internet I've felt as if the people around me had suddenly been upgraded with a foreign language memory chip that I had somehow failed to receive in the mail.

  But fortunately for me now, a little over three months ago, I had received an assignment that forced me to sit down and learn about some of this stuff: a chief technology officer from Silicone Valley who had married the first woman he fell in love with because he had been convinced she was the only woman who would marry him. And at the time, because he was a lowly, fairly unattractive network administrator for an office supplies distribution company, she probably was. But then time passed, he got slightly better looking, and more important, his bank account and business card title got slightly more impressive, and suddenly, girls he had never even dreamed of talking to, let alone marrying, were very interested in learning all about the exciting field of information technology. Girls like Ashlyn: a motivated, techno-savvy systems analyst trying to survive a harsh, male-dominated field.

  Who knew that my knowledge of information technology would ever come i
n handy again?

  In fact, thanks to my previous research, I had more than just an inkling about what a name server was. And, as opposed to what I might have thought four months ago, it wasn't asking me to assign a name to the person who brings me chicken wings at Applebee's. It was the name of the company where the Web site was hosted.

  In other words, it was the company that had sold cyberspace to whomever was terrorizing me on the Internet. A digital self-storage rental house, if you will.

  I quickly typed the company name into a new Google search. The results were definitely in my favor. It was exactly what I was hoping for. The small Web hosting company of Fiztech.net was owned by one lonely, solitary person.

  And thankfully, that person was a man.

  A man who would soon be getting a very unexpected visit.

  BUT BEFORE I could pay my unexpected visit to Jason Trotting of Fiztech.net, I had to take care of my unexpected visit to the Range Rover dealership for the recall on some malfunctioning part in my car.

  On Wednesday morning, I pulled into the service line at the far end of the dealership and stepped out onto the pavement. A man dressed in a black polo shirt tucked into khaki slacks approached me with a clipboard.

  "Good morning," he said. "Do you have an appointment?'

  "Yes," I said, leaning into the car and pulling out my purse. "Eleven A.M. Jennifer Hunter."

  He scanned his clipboard. "I'm sorry, I don't have you down on my list. Are you sure it was today?"

  I frowned and craned my neck to glance at his list. "Fairly sure." I was almost certain Marta said today at eleven A.M.

  He shook his head. "Hmm. I don't know why you wouldn't be on here then."

  I muffled an aggravated groan. "Great, so I have to come back another time?"

  He smiled and shook his head. "Of course not. Let's just bring you inside and take a look at the computer. We can take care of it today."

  I thanked him and then followed him through the sliding glass door that led into the service department.

  "What are you coming in for? Oil change?" He took a seat behind a tall desk with a computer terminal stationed on top of it.