He snorts. “Suit yourself. But if I were you, I wouldn’t use that phone for anything sensitive for now. I’ll ping you later after I look at your laptop.”
“And if I need to reach you?”
“Text me, or if you have documents to show me, email me at [email protected].”
“Abyss.com?”
He titters. “It’s just me and a few friends. We have our own server, so you don’t need to worry about confidentiality. I’m not going to say it’s unhackable, but let’s just say security is tight.”
“How much do you want for this?”
“It’ll be five hundred up front, and then another hundred dollars an hour. If I’m going to work more than five hours on this, I’ll contact you and let you decide if you want to keep going.”
I knew Dustin’s services were going to cost me, but I am galled by his rates. I charge half of that for my photography work, and I turn over a portion of that to Mike Chau. Or I did. Back when I had a job. “Fine. Do you want me to Venmo you?”
He scoffs. “Did you hear what I said? Don’t do any financial transactions via the internet.”
“Well, I don’t have a checkbook with me.”
“That’s cool because I wouldn’t take a check. Cash only.”
He stands up and downs the rest of his drink, then tosses the empty cup on the table. I grab all the garbage, including his cup, and toss it on the way out.
We leave together and head to a bank around the corner. The air is crisp, proper autumn weather, and the tall office buildings create a wind tunnel that we have to lean into while we walk. We’re just far enough apart from each other that no one would suspect we are together. I’m not sure if he’s trying to maintain some kind of discretion or if it’s just a teenager’s natural reluctance to be seen with an adult.
Dustin waits behind a brick column while I withdraw the five hundred, the maximum the ATM will allow me. I wonder if he knew that.
“Here you go.” I hand him the wad of cash. He turns to go, but I call him back. “One other thing. I think that someone’s been following me. I have a license plate number, and I want to find the person it belongs to. The police won’t help me—”
A sharp laugh like a kitten’s yelp escapes his throat. “I told you so.”
I jot down the info on a scrap of paper, which he plucks from my fingertips.
“So you think you can find something out?”
“Of course I can. Bring me more stuff like this—licenses, credit card numbers, cell phone numbers, email addresses—and I’ll have this figured out in no time. People think they’re anonymous, but there’s no such thing as privacy anymore. Whether you’re on the web or running around town, you are constantly being tracked, watched, and monitored.”
He pulls his black hood over his head and walks off.
The wind has picked up, and a few errant drops of rain start to fall. The forecast is for rain tonight and a windstorm tomorrow. I pull the collar of my coat tight.
My car is on the second floor of the public parking garage. I take the stairs two at a time, holding my breath to keep out the stench of piss. As I round the second landing, the thud of footsteps below echoes up through the stairwell. I pick up the pace.
My body relaxes once I’m out of the stairwell and on the second floor of the parking garage—that is, until I realize I’ve made an error. I’ve entered through the wrong staircase and will have to traverse the entire length of the dim garage to get to my car. I’ve just begun walking when I hear the click of the stairway door behind me. I glance over my shoulder. It’s a man in a black puffy jacket, head down. He’s walking right toward me.
My steps quicken. Not quite running, but I’m walking as fast as I can.
The garage is filled with cars. I’m safe, I tell myself. Completely normal for other people to be here. It’s the middle of the day.
I take a peek over my shoulder. He’s right there, just behind me. I pull my bag to my chest. I can see my car. It’s so close. If I can just get inside and lock the doors, I’ll be fine.
A dip in the pavement causes my ankle to twist and give out. I stumble and fall to my knees. The palms of my hands make contact with something wet and greasy. The man leans down and grabs my arm, lifting me up with the same ease with which I lift Cole. I feel helpless. My legs are like jelly as I force myself upright.
I push him back and open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out, just a gasping for air.
He pulls his hood back, revealing a young, dark-skinned face. He holds his hands up, wide-eyed. “I’m not going to hurt you, lady.” Hurt interlaced with anger fills his voice.
I try to smile, but my whole body shakes. The young man walks to a Honda minivan parked across from me. I limp to my car, the pain from my ankle radiating up my leg, my face burning with shame.
I can’t go on like this. If Dustin doesn’t come through for me, I have no idea what I will do.
43
“Where were you?” Cole says as soon as I walk in the door at home. “We have to go. We can’t be late.”
“Oh, shit,” I say when I see the kitchen. I completely forgot about International Night.
“Mommy! You said the s-word.”
The island is covered in trays filled with squares of shortbread. Each one boasts a toothpick hoisting a little blue rectangle with a white X on it. I am not up for
