I enjoy the peace of lying here with him like this, in sheets that still smell of our love making, for a few moments more, before extricating my hand.
He grumbles as I do but doesn’t truly wake up.
The air is cool. I’m not sure what the heating controls are set at, but it’s certainly not quite warm enough yet.
I grab a pair of thick socks, the hoodie Catfish wore yesterday off the chair, and my laptop and slip out of the bedroom.
The house is so quiet and peaceful. Catfish said there are two prospects keeping an eye on the place with patrols from an outbuilding I’ve been assured has some form of heating.
But maybe what I should do is use the time to select and order the security system for Atom’s ranch house. As I head down the stairs, I consider what it’s going to need. Some form of perimeter sensors. Actual cameras.
And I’m going to look for some regular work. Or see if Calista has any projects she wants outsourced. Because I need to make some money and pay my way. I’m tired of living off the Outlaws’ hospitality.
It wouldn’t take much for me to do a couple of projects, and then I can pay for the security system and installation as my gift to Atom for letting me stay here.
The kitchen light is bright when I switch it on, and I wince as I place my laptop down on the counter.
Before I start the coffee, I tug the fluffy socks on and pull Catfish’s hoodie over my head.
It smells of him, a scent I’m coming to associate with good things, like safety and comfort and care.
Once I’ve set the coffee to brew, I grab a cup from the cupboard and wait impatiently with my hands on the cool marble counter. I need to establish some kind of normal while I’m here. I haven’t been to the gym in, like, ten days, but Catfish mentioned the club has one in one of the outbuildings behind the clubhouse. Perhaps if I ask him, he’ll take me there to get a sweat on.
Although, maybe I shouldn’t word it that way. Or he’ll come up with other ideas to get the two of us sweaty and I won’t be able to say no.
I need to set some kind of working hours and split my time between making some money and going back through all the files with a fine-tooth comb.
When I finally perch my butt on the leather stool, I open my laptop.
Steam swirls above my coffee cup as I wait for the interface to open.
I don’t have any social media. It’s rare for someone my age to not have a single space dedicated to sharing every mundane detail of my life. But every photo a person ever posts has metadata. Even if they are shared privately. Where it was taken. What device it was taken with. Eighty percent of people never strip it. They don’t know you can triangulate a home address with three photos, but I’ve done it. Once, a guy I was tracking shared a picture of a dog in his yard. Two clicks later, I had his exact house up on Google Earth.
And don’t get me started on data brokers whose whole business is selling digital profiles. The average American has data points in over seven hundred separate databases. Youdelete a post? Doesn’t matter. It’s already been scraped and archived six ways to Sunday.
Privacy isn’t a switch. It’s a slow and steady erosion. A drip-by-drip loss that most people never see coming.
But some days, I do envy people having that kind of power to keep in touch with friends and family with the ease of a click. To have that passing connection where you can see what people you care about are up to. There are kids I’ve passed through the system with that I’d love an update from.
I guess the other thing with having a social media account is that I could convince myself I’m being busy while checking out their feed in between work deadlines.
Instead, I have no choice but to head straight to work.
There’s an alert on one of my early accounts, and it’s another message from Special Agent Chase that sits accusingly on my laptop.
I hover my cursor over the email address. It looks legitimate as email addresses go. I pay specific attention to small details. Scammers hope you don’t. They switch out the placements of periods. They sneak in Cyrillic letters to look like regular letters. But this is a clear email.
A quick internet search tells me that the setup of the email address format is correct for the FBI. Which suggests it has come from an official domain as opposed to a scammer. Everything I can see on both the regular and dark web says that this is a legitimate email from the FBI.
I’ve already checked this once, but I do it again. Paranoia is a wild thing. I’ve seen people in my field become total head cases, utterly lost in the gray of conspiracy and permanent threat. It’s easy sitting here to think it won’t happen to me, but the truth of it is, a bit like your privacy, your grip on the world can also slip out of your hands drip by drip.
Following the trail I’ve already scoured, I can see that a special agent named Dorian Chase does, indeed, still work where he says he works.
So, I open the email and read it.
Wren,
I know you are seeing these emails. So, I’m going to try one last time to see if this is enough to get you to respond. You have vital information we require relating to the Los Jarales cartel. We’re willing to make a deal with you that requires no time served for your role in the hacking in return for those funds and information that might lead to the shutting down of their network. You have seven days to respond, or I will personally make sure that you are added to the Most Wanted list. To avoid flight risk, I have already added you to various watchlists, so do not attempt to flee.
