by Trisha Wolfe
The secret part is extremely important.
During the vetting stage, I make sure to dig up some juicy tidbit on each one. That’s another requirement. Each client needs at least one dirty secret I can hold against them should they suddenly have a bout of conscience and want to make our arrangement public.
As for Lenora, she may very well be a wronged wife, but she’s no innocent doormat. She’s been siphoning off her husband’s personal account. Little increments that she sends to a woman in Denver.
This woman adopted a baby boy twelve years ago in a private adoption.
Neither Lenora’s husband, nor her socialite friends, know of this child’s existence.
Then I factor in the target—or intended victim—the difficultly of access to them, and the measure of revenge the client wants to exact. This equation gives me a rough baseline, which is typically between fifteen and thirty thousand.
I make a decent living. I don’t have to work at my day job, but it’s wise to have a way to fudge my tax statements if the IRS comes knocking.
Truthfully, I probably should’ve turned Lenora away. During our first meeting at a hole-in-the-wall Starbucks, she presented as weak, broken. Desperate. The anger I usually see in clients wasn’t present in her. Instead, she begged me to help her. Her vulnerability didn’t move me; it was something else that motivated me to take on her plight.
Protectiveness?
Validation, maybe?
Honestly, I doubt I pitied her story or position any more than any other client, and yet there was still something about Lenora that burrowed underneath my skin.
I tuck the notebook away and check the time. Lucy has a few items at her day job that require attention, then I can make the proper arrangements for this weekend. I’ll need to gain access to Ericson’s office, and that’s going to take money—more money than I’m charging Lenora.
On my way to my office, I send Rochelle a text. She’s a bigwig client whose jobs help fund the less fortunate who want my services. Rochelle is always in need of revenge. She’s a bloodthirsty bitch.
She might be the only person I could love.
One thing I’m confident about is my ability to read others. You don’t have to have a vast array of emotions to recognize the nuances.
It was like that moment on the playground with Kyle. I knew his place in the world, and I knew mine. It was black and white. The punishment fit the crime.
Ericson Daverns is murdering his wife, slowly and deliberately, with his cruel, callous actions and disregard. A justice system can’t punish him. A world dominated by his kind won’t judge him. I know his place in the world, and I know mine.
Vengeance is my ethos.
My phone chimes and I swipe the screen to take the call. “Rochelle.”
“Got your text, honey,” she says. “How much time do you have this morning?”
She doesn’t waste a second on useless banter. Again, I could love this woman.
“An hour. What do you have?”
“A competitor who thinks she can copy my brand and steal business.”
Rochelle is a power-seeker, and she enjoys punishment. A lot. Of course, I’m not entirely sure if she’s a narcissist or just insanely neurotic. Possibly a toxic mix of both, which makes the revenge game addictive for her. She’s due for another fix.
As I turn down an alley to cut through, I sense a pull at the energy in the air, and that same stench of desperation that clings to Lenora touches my senses.
“On my way.” As I end the call, I feel an alarming tug on my shoulder and whirl around.
A scrawny man with a hoodie partially shielding his face yanks at my handbag. I clamp one hand to the strap and raise my phone to snap a picture. “You don’t want to do this,” I tell him as he tries once more to snatch my bag.
He’s desperate. The worst kind of person. His moral compass takes a backseat to whatever drug he’s craving. “Facial recognition has come a long way.” I snap a pic. “Your face is out there somewhere. I can find you…” I lean forward as the crowd rushes past outside the alley. “And I will sneak inside whatever hovel you’re holed up in and systematically remove body parts, leaving your most precious for last. Then I’ll peel the skin off your limp dick and douse the whole butchered mess with brake fluid.”
He shoves away from me and pushes the hoodie back, revealing sore-riddled cheeks and bruised half-moons beneath his glassy eyes. “Christ, lady. You’re fucking crazy.”
Hitching my bag strap high on my shoulder, I lift my chin. “Keep that in mind for your next victim. They just might call me.”
As I watch him run off, I feel…nothing. Not even the slightest swell of adrenaline. I look at my phone and stare at the image of him, then delete it without another thought.
I walk against the crush of foot traffic, cutting a line through the center of the crowd, wondering when my own moral compass became so desensitized. Having no empathy doesn’t mean I don’t know right from wrong. I’ve branded my career on the very nature of justice.
But if I had been alone with that guy—no witnesses—would I have made good on my threat? Just the thought of it sparks a tiny ripple of excitement.
Lately, my revenge job, that typically breaks through the hardened Teflon layer, has become dull. I’m not achieving the same thrill I did once before.
That feels dangerous.
Yet, I know very well I’d never take it that far. Believe me, once I knew what I was, I did the research. I studied up on Bundy and Rader (BTK) and other psychopathic killers. Whatever misfired in their brains, whatever damaged gray matter those predators sustained that led them down a dark path….we’re not the same.
The world is full of my kind. Check your top CEOs and entrepreneurs. Chances are, they’re a psychopath. They’re at the top because they have little empathy for others to hold them back.
I shove the annoying thought away and focus on my task at hand. Collecting a nice-sized bounty from Rochelle. I require it for the next stage. Time to find a figurative magnifying glass, one with a blistering beam that I can aim right at the bully Ericson.
Target
Blakely
“You’re far too pretty to be so sullen all the time.” Rochelle sighs and shakes her head. Silky gray-white layers shimmer in the florescent lighting as she passes me on her way to a bank of laptops.
“That’s sexist,” I say. “Besides, this is a sullen kind of career. I doubt you’d want a smiley, bubbly blonde with rainbows and happy faces all over her business card to exact retribution for you.”
Hunched over a laptop screen, she pauses her task to look up. Her skin is like wax. Any wrinkles her fifty-five years may have produced have been ironed away with repeated face lifts. “Good point, killer.” With a wink, she returns her focus to the screen.
“I’m not a killer.” This job comes with a list of rules—rules I made up, of course—but ones I felt needed to be established for my clients’ sake to make things perfectly clear. No killing is rule number one. I’m not a hitman, or hitperson, whatever the politically correct term may be.
While Rochelle is jacked into her work, I glance around the room, taking in the upgrades. All new sheetrock and stainless steel. White Mac computers line a workstation central to the room like a kitchen island. As cold as Rochelle herself. She’s the Martha of the fashion world.
She owns this renovated, three-story building on a prime real-estate corner of the city. It’s sleek and industrial. She’s only been in the business for three years, yet she’s climbed the ranks to be one of the top labels in the industry—Dirty Laundry—a new trend that didn’t go out of style.
And she did so with her ex-husband’s money and a work ethic that rivals my own. Oh, and also smiting anyone who dares to compete against her. She might also have a slight god complex.
Rochelle waves me over. “Come here, honey. Come look at this little bitch.” She points to a young, trendy woman on the screen. “How does she think she’ll get away with this?�
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I raise an eyebrow. “Am I supposed to notice something?”
She clucks her tongue. “Really, Blakely. After all these years together, you’ve learned nothing from me. Such a disappointment to your own gender.”
“Rochelle…”
“All right.” She clicks another image and enlarges it. “This little twat, who was just a no-name artist on a corner a month ago, just went into collab with one of my distributors. Her simple-minded black-and-white artwork all over denim! It’s disgraceful, and cutting into my own print denim line.”
I rub my forehead. High fashion gives me a nausea-inducing headache. I like nice things. I don’t care why they’re nice. “What is it that you want, Rochelle?”
She glances over her shoulder at her team, then tics her chin toward her glass office. Once she has us sealed inside, she says, “Katy Dee built her career on Instagram. An Instamodel—” she scoffs “—so tacky. I want her account taken down. Her thousands of followers gone, and for good measure…oh, I don’t know. Maybe her line’s latest shipment gets lost upon delivery. Like say, in Indonesia?”
I smile. Rochelle would be good at my job. I rarely have to investigate to come up with a good scheme. “Oh, is that all you want?”
“The usual fee? Or are your prices inflating like everyone else’s in this blood-sucking world?”
I hold up a hand. “The usual is fine. But maybe it’s time for a hormone check?”
She sighs heavily, blowing her fringe of thin bangs away from her forehead. “Seriously. That bastard took all the good parts of me. My youth. My patience. And what am I left with? Menopause and a dried-up vagina.”
And fifteen million dollars in the settlement and alimony.
“I’ll have an update for you tomorrow,” I say, as I head toward the office door. “Try not to murder anyone, and get some hormones, for fuck’s sake.”
Her laugh is loud and throaty.
“Oh,” I say, paused in the doorway. “I will need one other thing this time.”
One of her pencil-thin eyebrows arches.
“Who does your hair?” I ask.
She digs out her phone and punches in a contact. “Lyric, I need a favor. I’m sending her to you in ten.” She hangs up.
“Damn. Must be nice to be the queen.”
She smiles as she scrawls an address on a Post-It and hands it to me. “So what’s the occasion? Are you finally tired of looking like an emo nut from the nineties, or is it a request from Mommy Dearest?”
Besides Lomax, Rochelle is the only other client who knows my real name. It was impossible to keep it from her, seeing as she runs in the same exclusive socialite circle as my mother and her friends.
Rochelle is baiting me. She knows very well Vanessa has no say over my life, more so my hair. I took that power away when I denied any claim to family money.
“Vanessa has nothing to do with this.” I give her a knowing glare. “I need a new look for a special client. He likes blondes.”
“Oh, my my my. A man. I am intrigued!”
Her obnoxious laugh follows me out as I weave a path toward the exit.
They—whoever they are—say blondes have more fun. Well, I’m about to test that theory on one revenge scheme for Ericson Daverns.
Hacking is a learned skill that anyone with half a brain and the basic understanding of computer networks can acquire.
Computers came naturally to me. I remember the couple of girlfriends my mother would always invite over in the hopes I’d “make a connection”. These girls often complained about our comp classes, not understanding the language.
From the first time I laid my little fingers to the keys, I felt that connection I could never obtain with another person. I spoke the language of the cold, hard object that computed information with no emotion to hinder its thought process.
We were kindred.
My teenage years were spent diving the dark web and uncovering every shady corner of the Internet. From a solitary computer, one can do almost anything. Learn anything. Be anyone, find anyone.
The limitless possibilities of a computer’s reach and the anonymity it provides is how I became involved in my field of work to begin with. Police and even the government are still a step behind hackers and people who are governed solely by their greed.
In my upstairs loft, I seat myself behind my metal desk and shake out the loose waves of my freshly highlighted hair before I pull open my MacBook. Maybe it’s just the newness, the mind aware that a drastic change has been made, but my head feels lighter. I actually feel more buoyant.
Lyric must either fear Rochelle or worship her—most likely both—because she canceled her morning appointment to squeeze me in, and according to a quick search of Lyric, she’s one of the most sought-after stylists in New York.
I rolled into Lucy’s office job two hours late, but my boss never gives me too much grief because I make him a ludicrous amount of money. Besides, thanks to my new look, I doubt he even recognized me for the better part of the day.
When Lyric’s task to transform me into another person was complete, I admit, I barely recognized myself in the mirror. The platinum highlights mixed with caramel lowlights brought out the green in my eyes and the dark slash of my eyebrows, making my eyes a striking feature.
With the right clothes, revealing in strategic places, Ericson should become an easy mark. And to help solidify that endeavor, I log in to my ghost email account and spam him with the most salacious and sexually explicit content.
I hacked all three of his email accounts during the vetting period. He has one email for work, one for VIP clients, and one personal.
I fill his personal account with ads from The Naughty Playroom. Then for good measure, I retarget his social media account with the same ads featuring scantily-clad escorts.
Now, on to Rochelle’s latest victim.
I unkink my neck with a stretch, then dig into research on Katy Dee. She’s just a baby. Twenty-two years of age living right here in NYC. She’s an artist whose focus is on saving endangered animals. Her most popular art prints—zebras, pandas, and other various black-and-white mammals—were picked up by a known clothing brand, and the line proudly touts its use of all natural material.
I roll my eyes. All material is natural. But honestly, the mesh of sateen and voile boasts to be both posh and comfortable. I buy a few shirts before I tank Katy. What Rochelle doesn’t know won’t hurt her.
Okay—so what Rochelle is asking for technically can’t be done. Well, it can be, but the nerds will have Katy’s account back up not long after I take it down. She might not even register a blip in inactivity.
But there are other ways to nix a social media account. One just has to be creative.
I set the password cracker—that I proudly coded myself—and then go downstairs to make a cocktail. As I return to the loft, I’m surprised to see that my program has already cracked Katy’s Instagram password.
Pandas1234.
“Christ,” I mutter. Someone this naive is just asking for it. But her password gives me a terrible idea—and I love those.
I set to Googling endangered species hunters, and within a few minutes I find what I’m looking for. Brooke Cannon, a young socialite herself, likes to brag to the world about her number of kills. She’s quite the little serial killer of the world’s most endangered animals. And lucky me, she has a photo of her standing next to a dead panda—pink riffle held high in the air—that she shot herself.
How much sport is there in shooting a panda? Even I’m a little mortified.
More research proves that pandas bring in a lot of money for their fur.
Perfect.
With a little help from Photoshop, I have a believable pic of Katy Dee and Brooke sitting together and laughing over chardonnay as they toast the good life. The image goes up on Katy’s account. The post reads:
Throw back to that time me and my gal pal Brooke partied together! She was the inspiration for my panda prints!
/> I make sure to tag Brooke (so all Katy’s followers can hop over and take a gander at the mortifying images she posts to her account), and hashtag the shit out of the post, so every activist in the world will see.
I admit, I’m getting a small thrill out of this. It’s not my best work, but when something goes viral, there’s this surge of adrenaline. And Katy Dee’s post goes viral in a nanosecond.
My work here isn’t quite done, though.
Any journalist worth their salt will uncover the lie here, rushing to come to the aid of Katy and her reputation. But an even hungrier, greedy journalist will salivate over the opportunity to prove it true.
Hey, I’m not the bad guy here. The world loves a scandal. Give them a hero to shred, and the claws come out.
I create a metadata trail that can be traced, proving the two girls have been in communication over the past year. Deleted and backdated email logs. Internet HTML receipts of likes and social media shares from each other’s accounts that were deleted.
Then I bundle the proof into a zip file and shoot it across the Internet to one lucky journalist from my anonymous email account.
I sip my whiskey sour as I refresh Katy’s Instagram account, watching her followers abandon ship by the thousands.
My phone rings. A glance at the display shows it’s Ericson.
That didn’t take long.
One last sip of cocktail and I answer: “Naughty Playroom Escorts.”
His voice isn’t even bashful. No hint of shame. “I need an escort for this Friday evening.”
“Yes, sir”—he is dominant, therefore I am subservient in my response—“any special requests that we can accommodate?”
He lists his preferences. Blonde (of course; check). Meek (submissive; I’ll work on that). As he will be attending a company outing, the escort is to be dressed accordingly. Over the past few weeks, I’ve observed his “company outings”, so I know just what to give him.
The date is booked, and I end the call by taking his credit card number. Hell, no reason I can’t have Ericson pay twice for his own revenge.
