Cam nodded once, like I’d passed some kind of test. “Ever log in to that dummy email account at home?”
“Never.” I’d only ever used that email account once, the day I set it up. I’d created it for the sole purpose of joining this specific forum to spy on FedUp.
“How about at work?”
I shook my head, not bothering to explain that my home and work were the same place. I hadn’t even given Cam my name, reluctant to share any personal information with him. And to his credit, he hadn’t asked.
He watched me, his hitched thumbs tapping against his chest. “So what’s the problem?”
I glanced at Vero. Her jaw was locked tight, her pursed lips scowling as she picked the polish off a long pink fingernail. Her shoulder bobbed once.
“Earlier this week,” I explained, “I logged in to the forum while I was at the mall, on the open Wi-Fi at the food court. I posted a reply to one of the threads. It contained information that was very … personal … and now I’m concerned that someone might be able to track that post back to me.”
He raised an eyebrow, his critical gaze sliding over me, as if he were picturing me naked and wasn’t impressed. “What browser were you using?”
“The one that came on my laptop … Safari, I think?”
He gave a slight shake of his head, as if that answer disappointed him. He jerked his chin toward the laptop bag beside my chair. “Where’d you get the device?”
“I ordered it online.”
“New?”
“Refurbished.”
“From the manufacturer?”
“No, from eBay.”
His subtle nod suggested I had gained back some ground. “Did you register it?”
“No, I don’t think so.” The man I’d bought it from assured me he had wiped it of all his old files. He had given me a password to get past the lock screen, and I hadn’t gone through the hassle of changing it. But something told me that confessing this wouldn’t win me any points with Cam. “I think it’s still registered to the person who owned it before.”
“You’re good.” Cam unfolded his arms and pushed out of his chair.
“Wait,” I sputtered, shooting to my feet. “That’s it? I’m good? What does that mean? You didn’t even look at my computer.”
He shrugged. “Crowded mall. Open Wi-Fi. Anonymous account. No log-ins to the email account that could be tied back to your home or office. You’re clean,” he said, jamming his hands in his pockets. “Don’t post or check that email from anywhere that can be traced back to you, and you’re golden.”
“You charged two hundred fifty dollars for ‘don’t check that account from home’？” Vero’s laugh was harsh. “I could have Googled that!”
“Fine, you want your money’s worth? Here’s some advice. Don’t post nudes from the goddamn food court. And if you want to stay off the radar, then next time you’re at the library or whatever, download a dark web browser so you won’t get caught doing it. Use it when you’re posting personal shit you don’t want tracked.”
“This dark web browser,” I asked, blocking his exit, “can it hide me from professional hackers?” Like the cyber forensic guys Georgia drank with on Thursday nights. The ones that busted kiddie porn rings, local terrorist cells, and big-time internet scammers. I was pretty sure it would take them all of two seconds to find me.
“As long as you don’t do anything stupid.”
“That doesn’t bode well,” Vero muttered.
A car horn beeped outside. “That’s my ride. Pleasure doing business with you.”
“Wait,” I said as Cam reached for the door. If he knew how to keep people from tracking me, maybe he knew how to track someone else. “If I give you an email address, would you be able to figure out who the account belongs to?”
He shrugged. “It’ll be another fifty for a search.”
Vero grabbed my hand as I reached in my purse. “What the hell are you doing? You think money grows on trees?”
“What’s wrong with you?” I hissed. She’d been acting strangely about money, ever since she came home from her weekend with Ramón.
The car’s horn blared outside. A muscle clenched in Vero’s jaw.
“Look, ladies. If you hold on to that fifty any longer, I’m going to have to start charging you interest.”
Vero let go of my hand, swearing quietly when Cam took the cash. I shuffled through the piles of magazines and found a chewed-up ballpoint pen. Tearing the edge off the cover of an issue of Sports Illustrated, I scribbled FedUp’s email address on it and handed it to him.