Chapter 1
Cupid Lied
Damian
At exactly five p.m. I turn off my work computers, all six of them. I log out of my secured VPNs, out of the bank servers, out of my coding software. My chair bumps over the thick plastic mat under its caster wheels as I roll across the living room to my other set of computers.
These are my personal workstations, monitors, and hard drives that I’ve constructed myself, put together with confiscated parts salvaged from computers new and old, then reconfigured like I’m Frankenstein and they are my monsters. The screens flash green, lines of code scrolling along as they analyze everything from current stock market trends to the political news of the day. This is where I make my real money. Not from my day job, protecting banks from cyber-hackers like myself, but from the code I write that automatically trades stocks, bonds, and options.
At twenty-eight, I’m already rich enough to retire, but then what would I do with myself?
Sit around and play sudoku?
No thanks.
I have better ways to spend my time than that.
I dunk the chamomile tea bag into my favorite mug, the one that saysCup of Positivi-Tea, a few more times before tossing it into the trash can beneath my desk. Pursing my lips, I blow the steam away and take a sip.
The drink is warm. Calm. Comforting.
Then I turn on one final monitor, ready to see her.
My favorite hobby.
My favorite person.
My favorite obsession.
Hannah Johnson.
Hannah, with her long brown hair and thick-lashed hazel eyes. Hannah, who cries at the end of every movie, happy or sad. Who bakes cookies with good intentions, burns them every time, and eats them anyway while muttering, “I’m not wasting food,” to her cat, Mr. Wiggles, like he’s judging her.
She talks to himallthe time.
Hannah, who sets alarms she doesn’t technically need, waking up at eight a.m. on Saturdays to go to the gym, to the store, to get coffee, because she likes having somewhere to be. Who lays down on the couch on weeknights with a book she swears she’ll read, only to fall asleep holding it. Who lets herself stay up until midnight on weekends like it’s a small, personal rebellion.
Hannah, who says yes when she means maybe, who overthinks texts for far too long, who laughs too loudly on the phone when she’s nervous and apologizes for things that aren’t her fault.
Hannah, who tries so hard to be easy to love.
No.
No, I haven’t talked toher.
But I know her better than anyone on this planet, better probably than I know myself.
There are many things I like about Hannah. Most of all, that she’s like me. She likes her routines. She likes things to be predictable. Controlled.
Which is why, on this particular evening, Valentine’s Day, I expect her to be in her after-work uniform: yoga pants, a baggy sweatshirt, hair pulled into a messy bun. I’m already smiling in anticipation as I settle back in my seat, ready for a night of watching Hannah watch rom-coms. Sometimes I turn on the same movie that’s on her TV and pretend I’m sitting next to her on the couch, my arm tucked beneath her head, her hair tickling my cheek. In my imagination, when the credits roll, she turns in my arms, lifts her head, and kisses me. Then I take her down the hall to her bedroom, where I make love to her until she screams my name…a name I’m not even sure she knows.
But tonight, the grin slips right off my face.
Something isnotright.
Hannah’s living room is empty.
Hannah’s TV is dark.
