Second Sight: An Away From Keyboard Romantic Suspense Standalone

by Patricia D. Eddy

  “You should go home. Relax. Everything’s under control here.”

  I stand, throwing my shoulders back to try to look taller than I am. Noah has a couple of inches on me, but when confronted, he usually backs down. “I can hold my own against a can of chicken noodle soup, Noah. And your little overprotective gesture out there was both condescending and undermining.”

  He frowns, the move highlighting his pale, flabby cheeks. “I just wanted—”

  “Stop.” Holding up my hand, I put some space between us as I head for my little tea kettle. “I know you mean well. But it’s hard enough being a woman in this industry, let alone the CIO. And when you put your arm around me and treat me like a wounded bird, the rest of the team sees that.”

  “This again?” He rolls his eyes. “You’re respected here, Evianna. By me, by the devs…by everyone. Accepting a little help isn’t going to change how people see you. Being a bitch will.”

  He’s halfway to my door when I finally form a comeback, but before I can get the words out, he turns. “Barry tells me we’ll hit zero bug count by Friday morning. I spoke to the building manager. The floor above us is empty until next month. We can use it Friday night for a three hundred dollar cleaning fee. If you don’t need Ulysses today, I’d like him to work with Cyndi to pull together a ship party. All of Beacon Hill’s employees and their plus ones.”

  “Fine. Take him.” Too tired to continue to fight with Noah, I flip the switch on the little electric kettle as he slams the door. “Prick.”

  Before the tea kettle dings, a knock breaks the silence, and I try to pull my hair back over my cheek. “Yes?”

  Ulysses comes in with a box tucked under his arm. “You okay? That was way out of line.”

  “Fine. He means well, he’s just a relic from when the world was a different place, and sometimes…he forgets things have changed.” Pouring the hot water over a bag of jasmine tea, I sigh. “You’re on party planning duty today. Go talk to Cyndi.”

  “My favorite.” There’s enough sarcasm in his tone to make me laugh when he plasters a fake smile on his lips. “But first, this was just delivered for you. Want me to open it?”

  “Who’s it from?” I eye the plain brown box, suddenly worried. What if it’s…dangerous?

  “Some guy named Ronan dropped it off.” My brows shoot up, the motion tugging on the cut on my cheek, and I motion for him to open it. “Huh. Is this one of the beta testing units?”

  Oh my God. Dax woke up Ronan to retrieve my home Alfie unit. “Um, yes. I’m just going to run some diagnostics on it.”

  Ulysses cocks his head, his brown-eyed gaze boring into me. “You sure? Look, I know Noah was out of line, but you do look tired.”

  “Nothing a couple of cups of tea and some debugging won’t cure.”

  The look he gives me says he knows I’m full of shit, but he doesn’t press. “Okay. You need anything else before I go try to keep Cyndi from running amok with the party planning and hiring a clown and a face painter?”

  “Just some peace and quiet,” I say with a chuckle. “Cleaning up the mess I made took half the night. And I still have one bug on my plate to track down before we can declare this code shippable.”

  “Whatever you say. But…” Ulysses pauses with his hand on the door handle, “you sure it was a can that did that to you? If that little creep put his hands on you—”

  “Kyle didn’t do this. I swear. Now, shoo. Oh, and can you send a beta unit here?” I pass him a Post-it note with Dax’s office address on it.

  “On it.” With a final frown, he slips out the door.

  Lifting my home unit carefully, I cradle it in my arms. She’s been sitting in my living room for six months. Doing everything for me. Monitoring my security cameras, ordering my groceries, turning my lights off and on whenever I ask. Booking airline tickets and rental cars. Reminding me of doctor’s appointments, holidays, taxes. Heck, I depend on her to play music for me when I’m sad or lonely.

  “I’m going to figure out what’s wrong with you, Alfie,” I say quietly as I plug her into my computer and launch her system diagnostics. “You’re going to be just fine.”

  If only I believed that.

  Three hours later, all I have to show for my work is a raging headache. I’ve gone through my entire stash of Post-it notes, and I’m no closer to finding out why the unit failed.

  Every muscle in my body protests when I push to my feet. “Shit,” I hiss. Maybe I should have let Dax take me to the hospital. My shoulder throbs, and I rummage around in my briefcase for a bottle of aspirin.

  The office walls feel like they’re closing in on me. I need more Post-it notes. And coffee. And to look at something besides lines and lines of letters and numbers that tell me nothing.

  In the supply room, I snag two more packages of my favorite sky blue sticky notes, and I’m about to head for the coffee machine when I trip over a box on the floor and land hard on my knees. “Dammit,” I mutter. For a moment, Dax’s face flashes behind my eyes. The shock and confusion as he hit the floor. I can’t believe I didn’t think about picking up my bag. Of course he wouldn’t see it.

  I admit, I kind of miss him. I felt safe around him. No one would come after me here. But unease still crawls along my spine at every unexpected noise. Every loud cheer from the bullpen. Every ding telling me about a new email message.

  “Get up,” I whisper. “The sooner you figure out this mess, the sooner you can get out of here and maybe…we’ll finish what we started this morning.”

  Grabbing the box, I realize what’s in it. All the junk from Kyle’s desk. Little vinyl toys, a small LEGO replica of the Starship Enterprise, his coffee mug—with a bit of mold in the bottom, ugh—and a ratty old notebook with loose pages. I can’t leave the mug to grow legs and walk out of here on its own, so I snag it with two fingers and lift it gently. But one of the notebook pages sticks to the bottom.

  Proc 28t29

  Access codes???

  Security protocol ZetaEpsilon

  Who?

  Kyle’s notes don’t make any sense. We don’t have a security protocol ZetaEpsilon. Alfie’s security subroutines are named for superheroes. What access codes? Every command sent from Beacon Hill’s servers to Alfie devices relies on the most sophisticated encryption money can buy. There are no access codes.

  Kyle was onto something. Something…bad. All of his rantings. Asking me how I could compromise her like that.

  Could he have found something in Alfie’s code? Something I didn’t see? And then…shit. I ignored him. Over and over again. No wonder he threatened me. I have to figure this out. Throwing the moldy mug back into the box, I snatch up the notebook and clutch it to my chest.

  As I round the corner, I run smack into Noah. Literally. Several of the notebook pages slip from my grasp, and Noah bends down to pick them up. Please don’t look at them.

  Thank God, he’s still ticked off from earlier. “Might want to watch your step, Evianna,” he says flatly. “Oh, and we’re starting the party at 6:00 p.m. tomorrow”

  I toss a quick “thanks” over my shoulder as I rush back to my office. I have to figure out what Kyle knows. Or…knew. I just hope there’s enough in this notebook to point me in the right direction.

  17

  Dax

  My phone vibrates on the desk. “Call from: Wren.”

  “Tell me you have something.” The headache I’ve had since yesterday turned into a full-blown migraine around 2:00 p.m., and my right eye throbs in time with my heartbeat. Flashes of light mar my limited vision, though at least the nausea subsided quickly.

  “Your guy’s name is Louie Stein. Thirty-one years old. And he’s basically a ghost. His driver’s license expired three years ago. No bank accounts, credit cards, leases, loans, or mortgages in his name.”

  “Where is he, and why is he after Evianna?” I lay an ice pack over my forehead as I lean back in my chair.

  “No fudging clue,” she mutters, and the sounds of typing carry
over the line. “But he can’t hide from me for long. He has a private mailbox in Watertown—one of those places that let you pay an extra fee to remain anonymous—and I’m hacking into their system now. Also the traffic cameras around the store. He’s got to have a bank account, a cell phone, or something I can trace. I just need a place to start.”

  “How can I help?” I have to do something. Sitting in my office while Evianna’s in danger makes me want to punch the walls, but I can’t surveil her building. Can’t watch traffic camera footage, can’t even go clean up her house.

  “I’ll find him, Dax.”

  Pain skitters up my arm as I slam my hand against the desk. “Dammit. That’s not what I asked!”

  “Whoa there, boss. I’m working my apples off on this—”

  “Fuck.” I drop my head as my eyes burn. “I’m an ass.”

  “You’re human.” Her voice softens. “And…you care about her. You’re allowed to be…a little overprotective. Pretty sure Ry would have me cocooned in bubble wrap if he could.”

  For a minute, neither of us speak. Fingering the scars at my wrist, I straighten my shoulders. “How are you, Wren?”

  “What?”

  I put that hesitation in her voice. “After Russia…I never asked. Are you…okay?”

  She clears her throat, and when she replies, there’s a little wobble to her tone. “I’m mostly good. There are days I’m not sure I’d make it without Ry. I miss Boston. But…it wasn’t home anymore. Not without Z.”

  “I should have believed you.”

  “Dax—”

  “I never met your brother, Wren. For me to judge him—it was wrong. I know you. I trust you. And I let my own shit get in the way.”

  “You were there for me—for us—in the end.”

  Wren’s computer beeps, and I flinch at the high-pitched noise. The ice pack isn’t doing shit for my headache, so I drop it on the desk, followed by my glasses, so I can rub my eyes.

  “Holy snackcakes,” Wren says. “I found Kyle. He gave a fake name, but he was arrested this morning. Public drunkenness. Then tack on resisting and assaulting an officer. He…uh…urinated on the statue of Paul Revere.”

  “He still in custody?”

  “Oh, heck yeah. He’s not going anywhere. Not with the assault charge. He was booked under the name Jack Simmons.” Wren rattles off the precinct address, and I commit it to memory. Maybe I can do something after all. “I’m going to try to get in to see him. Find out if he had anything to do with the break-in at Evianna’s.”

  “Just…be careful, boss. This case…there are too many layers. Why would someone try to kill Evianna over a thumb drive? A thumb drive she doesn’t know anything about. This is the age of the geek. I might be one of the best, but there are probably a couple dozen other hackers in the world who could break through her company’s firewall and take whatever they wanted. Something doesn’t feel right.”

  “I survived Hell, Wren. This case isn’t going to do me in. I’ll contact you tonight.”

  Having a purpose leaves me so fired up, I don’t even wait for her to say goodbye.

  The police station is a bustle of activity, and the various conversations, shouts, and random noises leave me a little disoriented. The migraine’s fading, but not fast enough. Standing just inside the entrance, I wait, cane clasped in both hands in front of me, hoping for a little assistance.

  “Can I help ya?” The thick, Boston accent booms from just ahead and to my left, and I carefully edge forward until my cane hits the front of a tall desk.

  “Yes. I’m here to see Jack Simmons. I’m his lawyer. Matthew Jones.” Sliding my fake ID across the smooth wood, I try for a half-smile.

  “No shit? You like Daredevil or somethin’?”

  Because that joke never gets old.

  I shake my head as I push my glasses up so the guy can see my eyes. “No, Officer…?”

  “Officer Bushman. You must get that a lot, yeah?”

  “You have no idea.” Trying to affect a bored, bitter tone, I lean against the desk. “Listen, the kid doesn’t know I’m coming. He can’t afford me, but his pop picked up the tab.”

  “He’s still awaiting arraignment. I can get him in a room for ya’ in the next ten minutes. Have a seat and I’ll call ya’.”

  My ID slides back under my fingers, and I nod my thanks. “Where are the chairs?”

  “Oh. Sorry. Turn around and they’re at your two o’clock.” In the next breath, Bushman starts yelling at someone behind him, and I take a seat.

  “VoiceAssist: Text Wren. Message Content: At the station. Anything you have that can help me get him to talk, send it over.”

  A few minutes later, she replies.

  “He got away with the fake name because his prints aren’t on file anywhere. I’m checking the dark web for any evidence he’s used the Jack Simmons alias before, but so far, nothing. He has a mother in St. Louis, and a brother out in California.”

  That might be enough leverage for me to get the kid to talk. That is, if he’s not behind this whole fucking thing.

  “Matthew Jones?” A bored, male voice calls out my alias, and I push to my feet.

  “Right here.”

  Heavy footsteps approach to my right. “I can escort you back to the interview room, Mr. Jones. I have your visitor’s badge here.”

  Once I clip the temporary badge to my jacket, the man clears his throat. “Can I assist you?”

  “Yeah, sure.” I’m too tired and still a little dizzy from the migraine, so I let the guy take my elbow in a feeble grip and escort me down the hall, around a corner, and into a room that smells of sweat, stale coffee, and fear.

  For a moment, I hear Ripper screaming in my memories, but in the next breath, I realize there’s no awful stench of shit and too much aftershave that always surrounded us in Hell.

  “Simmons, you’re goddamn lucky,” the man says after he’s pulled out a chair for me. “Your daddy sprung for something better than the public defender.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Stop, right now,” I snap, slamming my hand down on the table. “Don’t you say another fucking word until we’re alone. You understand me, son?”

  Kyle sputters for a moment, and the officer who escorted me in here leans in. “He’s cuffed to the table, Jones. You need us, you bang on the door.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Kyle asks when we’re alone.

  “A friend. Maybe. If you tell me what you know about Beacon Hill Technologies.” I pull out my voice recorder and place it on the table between us.

  “No way, man. I’m not talking to you. I don’t know shit about any technology anything. And I don’t want a fucking lawyer. Get out of here.” Desperation roughens his tone, and something hits the table. His head, I think.

  “Kyle—”

  “Shut up. My name is Jack, asshole. Are you trying to get me killed? I’m safe here. No one knows—fuck. How did you even find me? Oh shit, shit, shit.”

  “My associates are extremely good at their jobs, Jack.” I reach across the table, fumbling for Kyle’s cuffed wrist. He flinches as I wrap my fingers around his bony joint. “The cops don’t know your name. And I won’t tell them. As long as you answer my questions.” Punctuating my words by pressing two fingers against a trigger point along the bone, I let him feel the sharp pain for half a second before I release him. “What do you know about Beacon Hill Technologies and who’s trying to kill Evianna Archer?”

  “P-please,” he whispers. “Get out of here. I c-can’t help you, man. They’ll kill me. If you found me, they will too. I’m dead already.”

  The kid’s terrified, but the rasp to his words—he’ll crack if I can just find some common ground. Something he cares about more than himself. “Who’s after you? I can get you protection. You, your mom, and your brother.”

  “Oh shit. Officer! Officer! Get me the hell out of here!” Kyle starts pounding on the table, and a moment later, the door bangs open. “This asshole doesn’t represent
me. I don’t want to talk to him. Take me back to the holding cell.”

  “You’re refusing representation?” the tired voice of the guy who brought me in here holds a hint of shock, but he shuffles forward, keys jingle, and Kyle’s chair scrapes against the floor. “Your loss.”

  As Kyle brushes past me, I grab his arm, lean in, and lower my voice. “Last chance, kid. Tell me who’s after Evianna.”

  “Tell Evianna I’m sorry,” he whispers, “for ruining her fancy sneakers.”

  18

  Evianna

  I keep eying my briefcase, dying to take out Kyle’s notebook and flip through it, but the past couple of hours have been one interruption after another after another. Noah, Barry, Sanjay, Una… Every one of the developers has needed me to sign off on their bugs, and though I have my Alfie unit plugged in under my desk and scan through her logs every chance I get, I’m no closer than I was this morning to finding out what happened.

  A power surge tripped her circuits around 5:00 p.m. yesterday, and that might have been why she didn’t record the break-in. But why didn’t she report the power surge? There’s no logical reason.

  The burner phone I tucked in the pocket of my jacket buzzes. “Dax. Oh God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t even realize what time it was. I can pack up and be ready to go in ten minutes.”

  “I’ll be in the lobby.”

  The call cuts off before I can reply, and the harsh edge to his voice worries me. He sounded…stressed? Frustrated? Worried? All of the above?

  Once I pack up my laptop—and check, yet again, that Kyle’s notebook is still tucked safely into the pocket of my briefcase—I stare at my Alfie unit. Should I bring her with me? I can’t really do anything with her at Dax’s. I need to be on-site to get into the guts of her code. But leaving her here doesn’t feel right either.