Suddenly, the password prompt disappears, and the desktop appears, with a picture of the Defiance club logo and folders on the desktop with various naming conventions. Smiling widely, Iclap once in my excitement, “Yahtzee!” I chime, then quickly pull myself in line so I don’t make too much noise.
Grabbing the mouse, my pulse races frantically as I open the main drive on the computer, seeing a list of files. I click on one marked LA Defiance Personnel, and the file opens. I spot my brother’s name, click on it, and the background check is thorough but basic—employment history, address, family. My first name jumps out at me, along with my education and career in journalism. Next to it, in bright red font, is:Not a threat.
There’s also no photograph of me.
Luckily.
Relief and disappointment collide in my chest, sharp enough to make me dizzy. They don’t know who I really am. They don’t know why I’m here. But that also means they had no reason to see me as a threat.
I keep scrolling, desperate for something, anything that will break this open. The official report lists Marcus’ death as a road accident just like the police incident report told me. A lie I’ve stared at for years. My hands tremble over the keyboard, nails clicking against the plastic.
Then I see it.
A sealed file, Marcus’ name printed across it in bold, along with a date—just days before he died.
This is it.
This has to be it.
My heart lodges in my throat. I hover over the folder, double click it, and thenBAM. Another password prompt appears on the screen.
“For fuck’s sake!” I mumble.
Letting out a small huff, I type in the same password that I used to gain access to his computer with, but I am met with a loudDONK. Scrunching up my face, I change tack andtry everything I can think of—birthdays, club initials, Marcus’ middle name.
Nothing works.
It allows me more attempts than the usual three to gain entry, but I’m just not having any luck at getting inat all.
The truth is right here, inches from my fingertips, but locked away behind a wall I can’t break.
Suddenly, anotherDONKsounds through the computer, and a red light begins to blink on one of the monitors.
At first, it’s just a pinprick of color. Then it pulses, faster, brighter.
An alarm without a sound.
My blood runs cold watching the light blinking back at me.
Am I being watched? Recorded? Did I trip something?
The hum of the servers swells to a roar in my ears. The glow of the monitors feels harsher, like interrogation lamps. My breath comes in shallow bursts, the room seems to tilt, walls inching closer, squeezing me until I can’t fucking breathe.
Get out.
Get out now!
I rip my hands back from the keyboard, nearly knocking over the chair as I stand. My heart is pounding so hard it shakes my vision. The door feels a mile away, my pulse a drumbeat counting down to impact.
I don’t hesitate as I bolt out of the den, not even bothering to try to leave it the way it was when I entered. I’m far too panicked. Every echo sounds like footsteps. Every flicker of light like a camera lens catching me. My legs move on autopilot, my only thought,don’t get caught. Don’t let Sin see you.
By the time I hit the main area of the clubhouse, my head is splitting from the adrenaline rush. I’m gulping air, my hands trembling so violently I can barely grasp the kitchen cabinet handle. I yank it open and find the painkillers. The bottle rattlesin my grip as I dump three into my palm and chase them down with water from the tap. The cool liquid hits my throat, but it does nothing to douse the fire inside me. I’m wound so tight I feel like I might snap in two, guilt and panic snarling together until I can’t tell them apart.
Food.
I need food, and then I need to calm down.
I make myself a sandwich, though I can barely taste it through the haze of adrenaline and disappointment. Hours stretch ahead of me before the club returns, and I have to get my head on straight.
