Find Me

by Romily Bernard

  He’s checking up on me. Another example of the nice-guy stuff he does and another example of why I should continue to avoid him. I don’t deserve nice.

  I fiddle with the buttons for a minute, trying to think of a response. Am I okay? Of course I am. Does he think this is the first time I’ve gone to pieces?

  I put the phone down, determined to ignore him, but my hand drifts to my elbow, where I can still feel his fingers on my skin.

  I wiggle my mouse, and the desktop leaps to life. There’s a picture of Lily and me as my background. Dad took this almost two weeks before the police tried to take him, and I haven’t seen Lily’s smile look the same since.

  And it’s another reason to keep moving. I’ll ignore the text, finish my work, get all this behind me. Sooner I do, the sooner I get paid.

  I log into my Gmail account, thinking I could send my current customer some of the new updates on her boyfriend. My current target is shockingly clean. If all men were like this, I wouldn’t be in business, but it will be nice to send good news for once.

  There are three new messages in my in-box. The first is from a customer I finished up last week, confirming her wire transfer. Great. I open up another window and double-check the transfer number she included in the email. The money’s there, and everything looks legit. Even better.

  I spend another moment transferring the funds into a separate account. I’m still kind of learning the finances thing. I never had much practice until now. Dad was in charge of everything. Norcut says that was probably why my mom jumped. She thought she’d never get control of her life again, and suicide was the only choice she had left that didn’t involve him.

  I think it’s nice that Norcut has an explanation for everything. Ever since that little comment, I’ve been pouring coffee into her office orchids. We’ll see if she can explain why they all die.

  The second email is from my current customer. Now she wants me to check the boyfriend’s work history too. If I had to bet, there’s nothing to be found there either, but the lady’s way paranoid. She wants the full workup. She also wants to say thank you.

  I close the email before I have time to read it, but the words “grateful” and “feel safer” stick to me. I get more thank-yous than anyone—including me—would ever guess, but I try never to read them. Because even though Lily and I need the money, and even though these women need answers, I still believe that only the vilest, rottenest of people would make their living from hacking. Maybe I deserve everything I’ve gotten from life. Maybe it’s cosmic payback for invading people’s privacy.

  I send the woman an updated quote, including instructions to send another transfer with the new payment amount. Then I click on the third email. I don’t recognize the address, and there’s no subject. It’s just four little words, but they make my insides go cold:

  Will you do it?

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  .....................................................................

  He understands things by cutting them apart.

  —Page 21 of Tessa Waye’s diary

  What. The. Hell? How did this person even find me? Only three people in the entire world know about my hacking.

  The first? Lily.

  The second? Lauren.

  The third? My dad’s best friend and partner, Joe.

  Is that too many? It must be. Someone must have told. Someone must have slipped up. Panic rises in me like a tsunami, and I think I’m going to drown.

  Or I could get a grip. The thought emerges in Technicolor and makes me sit up straight.

  Right. Get a grip. Think this through. Get a plan like I did before with Nurse Smith. I could figure out how I’ve been discovered. I didn’t wait for Carson to come up the stairs, and I won’t wait for whoever this is to stay ahead of me.

  I consider the three who definitely know. Lily is self-explanatory. Lily would never tell. She’s my sister, and she’s too afraid.

  The second person is Lauren. My best friend. Now I know that might not mean anything. Hell, I know it doesn’t mean anything. I’ve seen enough to know better—best friends can betray you. But Lauren thinks I quit. She thinks I hacked because my dad made me, and now that he’s gone, I don’t have to anymore.

  Then there’s Joe. Joe could be dangerous. He’s a black hat, a hacker who preys on everyday people. He’s a digital pickpocket, and he taught me almost everything I know, but he doesn’t know how I’ve been working to keep women safe. He thinks I only work for him . . . and my dad.

  With the exception of Lily, no one really knows how far it goes. They only know pieces, and that’s what keeps me safe.

  Well, I thought it was what kept me safe . . . so what do I do now?

  Fix this.

  Or fix someone else.

  Now there’s a lovely thought. I roll it around in my brain, liking the way it feels. I spin my chair around and stick my hand behind my headboard, searching for the pushpin I use as a hook for my special jump drive. The one I use for storing my personal information and programs. Superheroes have Fortresses of Solitude. Hackers have external hard drives. Whoever’s doing this has been spying on me. I could return the favor. It’d be easy enough.

  I yank the jump drive from behind the bed and plug it into my computer. What I need is a Trojan horse virus.

  Trojans are kind of my specialty. I make variations of them out of my Pandora Code, a hack I created to invade hard drives. I’ve embedded Trojans in Flickr accounts, YouTube links, and now, a simple email. The plan would basically go down like this: I reply to the email and embed the virus within a link or an attachment. I could write something about how I’m willing to take the job and instruct them to follow the link. It’s that simple.

  Because who can resist a single little click? Not many people. It’s bait, and once they click, I have a trapdoor into their digital lives.

  I could go through their computer files, check their internet history. If I’m really lucky, they’ll have a webcam, and I can turn it on and watch them. I’ll be in and they won’t know the difference.

  I scrub one hand along my mouth and realize I’m still shaking. I’m exhausted, and the trembling just makes it worse. It makes me feel weak. Vulnerable.

  If I’m going to fix things, I’ve got to be at my best.

  My jump drive’s file listings pop up on the screen. It takes me a minute, but I scroll through the file folders until I find what I want and do the upload. There are few things prettier than perfectly written computer code. It’s another language. Hell, it’s another world—one that I create. In the digital world, I’m powerful.

  In reality . . . not so much at the moment. My head is throbbing, and the edges of my vision are going blurry. I stick one hand into my desk drawer, feeling for a fat orange pill bottle pushed all the way to the rear.

  I paste the virus-embedded link into the email, dry-swallow two pills, and hit send, immediately feeling better. Whoever made me their target just became my prey.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  .....................................................................

  It’s amazing how you can measure loss. I wanted

  him so badly, but after I had him . . . it was the

  silence that told me all about how I was still alone.

  —Page 23 of Tessa Waye’s diary

  “Wick?”

  I am lying facedown in bed, drooling on myself. My bones are complete mush, but my head doesn’t hurt anymore.

  “Wick!”

  Shit! I bolt upright. Bren is hovering in my doorway like there’s some invisible line keeping her from stepping into the room. One hand plays with her pearl necklace, twisting the beads between her fingers. “Lauren is here to see you. She brought you today’s math assignments.”

  I squint. What? Math? I rub my tongue against the roof of my mouth, grinding away the grimy feeling. I don’t have
math with Lauren.

  “Are you up to having guests?” Bren asks. “I could just, you know, keep the notes for you until you’re feeling better.”

  I fork my fingers through my hair, trying to wrench my brain around. “No, no! Don’t do that!” I push away the covers with both feet and realize I went to bed with my shoes on. There are pale, dusty tracks across the blue bedsheets. “Sorry, I’m just feeling a little spacey.”

  Bren drops the pearls and both hands round into fists. For a moment, I think she’s going to launch herself at me, feel my forehead, check my pulse.

  Blast me with a Care Bear Stare.

  “Why are you feeling spacey? Are you getting sick again?”

  “No, I just took these pills—”

  Bren sucks in a noisy breath. “Drugs?”

  Oh God. These are the side effects of watching too much Dr. Phil. Bren is convinced that after growing up with my dad, I’m one step away from becoming Lindsay Lohan. “Sort of. I took two of those pills Dr. Norcut prescribed for me. You know the ones she wanted me to take when I get headaches?”

  A wide smile slings across Bren’s face. She looks . . . proud? “Did they help?”

  “Uh, well, I went to sleep, so . . . I guess?”

  “That’s good. That’s good.” Bren’s nodding hard enough to knock something loose. “You need to sleep. Dr. Norcut says your insomnia and migraines are linked to your stress levels.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’ll just have Lauren come back another time. You need your rest.”

  “Oh, no! Don’t do that.” I give Bren a big smile like my head isn’t swimming and Find me isn’t resurfacing in a chorus line. “I’m feeling lots better, Bren. I should take a look at the assignments. Don’t want to fall behind.”

  Bren lips go all thin like she doesn’t agree. “Okay, then, if you’re sure.”

  “Definitely.”

  She turns toward the hallway and calls, “You can come up, dear.”

  Someone stomps up the stairs, and Lauren appears in the doorway with a black eye that’s as bad as any my dad ever gave my mom. And yet she’s grinning like this is some sort of toothpaste ad.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Callaway!”

  “You’re welcome, hon.” Bren smiles at Lauren, but her gaze hitches on the girl’s face like she’s worrying. “Let me know if you two need anything.”

  “Sure will!” Lauren waits until Bren’s footsteps hit the bottom stair and then bumps the door shut. “You know, when you hang your mouth open like that, you look just like Bren. It’s kind of freaky.”

  “What happened to you?”

  Her grin widens. “You should be asking what happened to the other chick.”

  “You were fighting?”

  “Holly Davis said you were acting like a freak, and I got a little pissed.” Lauren wanders to my computer desk and drops into the roller chair like a careless puppy. “What can I say? Apparently, my abandonment issues have manifested into anger management issues.”

  I know I shouldn’t, but I laugh. I can’t help it. Most people meet their best friends at church or school. Lauren and I met in Dr. Norcut’s waiting room. She’s adopted, and her adopted mom worries that Lauren will grow up with Issues because her biological parents gave her up.

  Lauren was four when it happened. She loves her new life with her mom, dad, and brother and says she doesn’t remember anything that came before. But that hasn’t stopped Mrs. Cross from sending Lauren to Dr. Norcut every Tuesday and Thursday.

  “Is that what Norcut told you?” I lean against the headboard. “You have anger management issues?”

  “Among other things.” Lauren notices the meds bottle I left next to my keyboard. She picks it up, reads the label, and shakes it at me. “Imitrex? I guess she’s been telling you stuff too.”

  “She thought it would help.”

  “Did it?”

  I shrug. “I went to sleep.”

  Lauren nods like this is normal. “Anyway, I just wanted to see if you were okay.”

  “I’m fine.” I summon a smile and find it’s kind of easy when all your insides are in pieces.

  “Really? You’re fine? Because you look kind of rough.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that I meant it like—” Lauren looks up at my ceiling like it will somehow shower her with answers. She scowls when it doesn’t. “I saw you in the hallway at school, and you looked really bad. . . . I thought maybe the whole Tessa thing made you think about your mom.”

  Nurse Smith thought so too. It’s understandable. Our town is pretty small, and for a time, my mom’s suicide, and later, my father’s escape from the police were all anyone could talk about. I’m sure it wasn’t a big leap of deduction for everyone to assume I was having flashbacks.

  “I’m better. It was just . . . shocking. Are you okay? You and Tessa cheered together.”

  Lauren’s eyes go empty like she’s examining her hidden corners. “I feel shaken . . . upset . . . not betrayed like Jenna does. She’s devastated over Tessa.”

  Lauren gives me a sad smile. “You know you’ve been to a lot of therapy when you can turn your feelings into a list. I know I should feel guilty about Tessa. But even though we cheered together, we weren’t really friends—not like you and me.”

  I look away, fiddle with the edge of my comforter. Lauren and I have only known each other since she moved here five months ago, but she’s definitely my best—my only—friend. Most of the town knows about my dad and, by extension, about me, but Lauren’s the only one who knows a little about my online activities.

  Only a few weeks after she arrived, some lacrosse players thought it would be funny to send her dirty anonymous emails. Any other girl would’ve flipped, but Lauren got pissed. I took a risk and offered to find out who was sending them. And once we did, instead of going to her parents, Lauren confronted the guys herself and threatened to go public. I think that’s when we realized we were so similar. We deal with problems on our own.

  That’s a long way of saying I should trust her enough to explain what really happened today, but I don’t. I tell myself it’s because I’m playing it smart, but really, I wonder if I’m just chicken.

  “Anyway, that Griff kid from your computer class asked me about you.” Lauren gives me an expectant look, ready for an explanation.

  I don’t have one, but my face gets hot. “Can’t you get kicked off the cheerleading squad for fighting?”

  “Probably, but who’s going to tell? They’re all afraid of me.”

  She says it like it’s a joke, even though we both know it’s true. Lauren looks like someone’s porcelain doll. She’s all smooth dark hair and moon-pale skin, but, sometimes, when she smiles, it’s nothing but teeth.

  “Hey, let me check my email real quick.” I slide off the bed and nudge Lauren out of my chair. She ambles over to my closet and starts going through my clothes. For a long moment, there’s nothing, but when I hear her voice, my stomach drops three inches.

  “What’s this?”

  I turn around and see the diary in Lauren’s outstretched hand. The cover is folded over, and Find me stares up from the page.

  “It’s nothing. Put it back.”

  “It’s not nothing.” Lauren swallows hard, staring at me like I’m a stranger. “What are you doing with Tessa Waye’s diary?”

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  .....................................................................

  I thought, maybe, keeping a diary

  would break my fall.

  —Page 2 of Tessa Waye’s diary

  I can tell Lauren about the diary, about everything. The best part of being best friends is that I can tell her anything, or at least I should be able to tell her anything.

  Back when Tessa and I were best friends, she said I could always confide in her, but look how that turned out. I scoot my chair closer to the desk so there’s more room between L
auren and me. “I’m not doing anything with it.”

  “But why do you even have it?”

  She sounds so genuinely bewildered, I waver. I try to think how this might work.

  Yeah, so I’ve acquired another stalker. Oh, I didn’t tell you about my first? Well, it’s a long story.

  Or, So someone thinks I can find Tessa. Why? Well, I have this little side business. I hack people for money. Oh, I didn’t tell you about that either?

  Stop it. I can trust Lauren. I can. I’m not the girl my dad says I am.

  I take a deep breath, but it feels like the air entering my lungs is wearing soccer cleats. “Someone left it for me.”

  “Someone left it for you?” Lauren’s eyes drop to the diary, swing up to me. “That’s crazy! Who would do that?”

  I stiffen, but . . . she’s not challenging me. Lauren’s outraged. I don’t know what to say. Because for all the times I’ve told myself she’s my best friend, for all the times I’ve told myself she likes me for me, until now, I never believed it. The realization is horrible and wonderful. I don’t deserve this.

  So maybe that’s why everything vomits to the surface, splashing up chunks of information. It’s messy, sticky, nothing like my tidy lines of code. Suddenly, I’m spilling everything: about how I’m watching Detective Carson. How Detective Carson is watching me. How the diary just showed up with the note pasted inside.

  “Then I got this email.” I double-click my in-box. Lauren and I both read the WILL YOU DO IT? in silence.

  After a long time, maybe ten seconds, maybe ten years, Lauren straightens. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” Lauren cocks her head. Strands of dark hair slant across her cheek, and she tucks them back with jerky fingers. “How could you not know? You have to find her, like the note says.”

  “Because two words mean so much.”

  “Wick, you can’t ignore this!”

  “You’re damn straight I can’t. Whoever this is knows about my . . .” It’s hard to fit my mouth around the actual word. Not because I’m embarrassed. Well, not really. But aside from Lily, I don’t discuss this with anyone, and the words stagger on newborn legs. “No one is supposed to know about my hacking.”