She’s got someone watching my father’s family—and now that I’m here, watching me. Grayson was on high alert as he slipped the black key card into the door of his hotel room. He didn’t so much as turn on the lights until he’d verified that the place was clean. No listening devices. No cameras.
No Nash.
When Grayson did finally turn on a lamp, the first thing he saw was the 3D printer he’d requested. He woke up his computer and was greeted by a circular red icon telling him the number of direct messages he’d missed from Gigi. Seventeen.
She wanted the picture he’d taken of Trowbridge’s passwords, and she’d resorted to hairless cat pictures and all caps in her attempt to get it.
I WILL BUY YOU THIS TINY HAIRLESS KITTEN IF YOU DON’T GIVE ME WHAT I WANT.
Grayson felt a tug of affection. It was remarkable, really, how quickly she’d gotten under his defenses. Don’t get attached. You know what you have to do.
Grayson transferred the photograph from his phone to his computer, then set about altering it. A 9 in one password became an 8, a 7 in another was changed into a 2. A V could be easily morphed to a W, an L to a D, a Z to a 7. Any digit could be deleted from the end of a sequence.
With every change Grayson made, he pictured Gigi’s beaming smile, her bright, dancing eyes. He finished and sent her the photo, along with a message: If you don’t get anywhere tonight, I’ll need a copy of the files tomorrow.
He tried not to feel guilty about the fact that she wouldn’t get anywhere—by design.
Set on his course, Grayson printed a copy of each of the keys he’d designed: one an exact duplicate of Gigi’s and the other a decoy. Then he shot a message off to Zabrowski, with three directives.
The keys are ready for pickup.
You’ll want to update me on your progress.
Attached you’ll find a photograph of a car, complete with license plate. The driver was six foot two, approximately one-hundred-sixty-five pounds, blond hair, dark eyes, scar through his left eyebrow. Approximate age somewhere between sixteen and twenty, tattoos on upper arms and neck. I want identification and full background on him. Now.
Grayson made another transfer into Zabrowski’s account as soon as the message was sent. Then he shut a door in his mind on everything related to Eve and her spy. His focus came to rest instead on the two items he’d brought home the day before: the not-a-USB-drive and the index card.
His earlier attempts at revealing invisible ink had gone nowhere, so this time, his gaze was drawn to the notches in the card: two on the top edge of the card, one on the right. The other two edges were unblemished. The notches were small. Less than a centimeter, smooth, no distortion to the card. If the card had been taped to the inside of the computer, could pulling it off—repeatedly—have caused the notches?
Am I seeing meaning where there is none?
Grayson picked up the fake USB and tested its resistance when he pressed it down on the card. Nothing. He thought of the altered photograph he’d sent Gigi, about the way he was setting her up to fail—and then he thought about Savannah and the way people talked about her, even as they fawned over him.
It’s none of my business. Setting aside the items on the desk, Grayson put the keys he’d printed in an envelope and sent them to the front desk to await Zabrowski’s pickup. Refusing to dwell on that action, he entered the largest of the suite’s three bathrooms, flipped the shower on as hot as it would go, and stripped off his shirt.
Waiting for the steam inside the shower to build, he paced to the double doors that separated the bathroom from the attached bedroom. Pushing the doors open, he judged the frame to be just wide enough. With his arms in a V, he placed a palm flat on each side of the doorframe, and then he slowly lifted himself off the ground. Arms spread to either side, every muscle in them tense, every muscle in his chest and neck and abdomen the same, he held the position.
He watched the bathroom mirror fog over, watched his own image slowly disappear, and with it and the concentration it took to hold his position, thoughts and images bled from his mind one by one. First Gigi, then Savannah. Eve. Her spy. The girls at the party.
“I am so sorry that Avery girl took all of your money.”
“And chose your brother.”
“And broke your heart!”
His heart wasn’t broken. It couldn’t be when keeping himself aloft took every ounce of focus he had. When his thoughts finally stilled to silence, his arms gave out. He fell to the ground, to his knees.
He didn’t stay down for long.