I flip him the bird.
It’s useless because he’s too focused on what he’s doing.
The prick.
My watch chirps.
Yeah, yeah. Finn Cross isn’t good for my heart or my blood pressure. I don’t need my watch to tell me something I already know.
Annoyed, I stomp to the other end of the table, far away from Finn. There’s not much to see on the monitor as the program runs in the background. Then suddenly, the monitor shifts to a new terminal.
My eyes widen. “Finn, the decryption.”
He wheels over to the third monitor, two deep wrinkles between his eyebrows.
“Were you trying to get control of their computer?” I ask, noticing the commands available to him. “Because I don’t think this will do it.”
Finn types something on the keyboard.
The cursor moves along with him, filling in a message.
Mom, it’s me. Finn. Where are you?
My gaze darts between Finn and the computer. “I thought you didn’t believe the kidnapping had anything to do with your mom?”
“I hope I’m right,” he says quietly. So quietly that I might have misunderstood.
The cursor blinks once.
Twice.
Finn’s eyes fill with hope. Is he hoping his mom responds to the message or that she doesn’t?
At that moment, the cursor starts moving on its own.
The kidnappers are responding.
I sprint closer to the desk as if my nearness will allow me to receive the message faster.
The cursor blinks again:
Finn becomes the sculpture I always thought him to be because he doesn’t move at all. He stares at the screen, his long arms dangling at his sides and his bottom lip stiffening.
I can’t imagine what he’s thinking right now, what he’s going through. The hope that he was talking to someoneotherthan his mother must be shrinking by the second.
A vein throbbing in the center of his forehead, Finn types furiously back.
The cursor blinks for at least twenty seconds. I count each and every one. I’d be on the edge of my seat if Finn hadn’t booted me out of the chair.
