Good Game (The System, #1) (84)

I get everything squared away, deciding to attack my chocolate-covered pretzels—which Aleks got me addicted to—while zoning my brain out with a cozy video game. But because I can’t have anything nice today, apparently, I trip over my rug, mere feet away from the couch. My arms pinwheel to correct my balance while still holding on to the bag of pretzels. I stumble a bit but remain upright.

Those flowers must be cursed.

I look back at the offending rug, ready to cuss out the inanimate object, when I spot something stuck under it. I toss the pretzels onto the couch, crouching down to stick my hand under the green woven material. My fingers close in on a rectangular chunk of plastic.

It’s a flash drive with a note strung onto the end.

Dread courses through me as I open it, reading the scrawled word.

Bullseye

“What?” I mutter to myself. Frowning, I turn the flash drive over in my hand.

Obviously, there is something on the USB. However, I’ve watched enough TV shows to know that there could be some malware on this thing that could attack my computer. I doubt Chase has enough skill to pull that off, but it doesn’t mean he couldn’t hire someone to do so.

I head into my bedroom, rummaging in my closet for a specific box. My fingers close around the gray box, and I tug it out, popping off the lid. I bought a cheap laptop when I studied abroad in Aix-en-Provence, afraid that someone might steal my expensive one. I never got rid of it, just threw it into my memorabilia box when I returned.

I crawl over to an outlet, plugging the laptop in and powering it on. I snort at the screensaver that pops up, a photo of me and my friends dramatically posing outside Cezanne’s studio. I type in my password three times before getting the correct one.

I thumb the flash drive, twirling it between my fingers. Stalling isn’t going to change whatever is on this thing. I push it open to reveal the USB and insert it into the laptop.

The computer chirps, registering the device. When my computer doesn’t have a complete meltdown from malware, I click on the drive and wait for it to open. There is just one folder. It’s labeled “To Be Shared.” I tap on it, and my body temperature drops.

A bunch of .jpg files pop up joined by one .mov file.

Oh god. Did Chase film us? Are these photos of me?

I never sent him any nudes…but that doesn’t mean he never took any of me. He was always on his phone, and we were together for years. I didn’t look for cameras hidden anywhere, but why would I? Whose natural inclination is it to even do that?

My heart thumps heavily in my chest.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

I double-click on the first file, holding my breath as it loads.

The image generates, and I’m…

Confused.

I tap on the right arrow, and the next image loads. Then the next. And the next. And the next.

My blood turns to ice as I see a pattern forming, a story unfolding. Some of the pictures are annotated, little notes and arrows decorating them. There are collages weaving images together, connecting threads.

Bile rises in my throat.

I get to the last image and hesitate. My finger trembles over the mousepad.

Eventually, I tap the final file. The video loads with an ugly play button front and center.

I click on it.

I watch the entire one minute and twelve seconds.

I’m glad I’m sitting.

Because my entire world just fell out from under me.

***

I step into the elevator sopping wet, hitting the penthouse button with my knuckle.

Francis was horrified when he pulled up to my apartment complex to find me standing on the curb in the pouring rain. It probably made matters worse that I was holding a disheveled bouquet of roses in one hand, a plastic bag full of cookies in the other, and said no words to him at all during the forty-minute drive.

I’d sat on the floor for a few hours after opening the files last night, not moving a single inch as my brain shut down. When it finally rebooted, I got up to try to do something, anything. My entire body was shaking, fifteen million thoughts running through my mind. It took a little while for me to realize that I wasn’t even breathing properly. When I collapsed on the floor among the broken roses and started crying, I realized I was having a panic attack. I probably would have stayed on the floor all night, wheezing, if Ms. Arkin hadn’t come knocking with her lavender cookies. I have no idea how I managed to open the door; I think I crawled.

She took one look at me and said, “Please let me take care of you.” How I didn’t send her running, I have no clue. That woman is too good for this world. She cleaned up my floor, tossing all the flowers and torn petals into my trash can. Made me wash my face and change clothes, sweat having soaked them. She helped me hold a glass of water until I finished it, then made me drink another before forcing me to nibble on some cookies. When my hiccupping calmed down, she tucked me into bed and recited poetry until I fell asleep.

I woke to her still in my apartment even though it was midday. She watched me choke down a bowl of cereal and change into new clothes. But she was still worried. It wasn’t until I informed her that I was heading to my boyfriend’s that she relented and went back to her own apartment—which is how I ended up with an extra bag of lavender cookies to share.

“Penthouse,” the elevator announces.

I step out of the puddle I created and into the apartment. It’s quiet. I don’t hear any voices. The only reason for that would be if they were all streaming or sleeping. But it’s midafternoon, so everyone should be awake.