“Your laptop was compromised.”
The words are so flat that it takes a moment for them to make sense.
Then they do.
Cold moves over my skin.
“What do you mean ‘compromised’?”
“Someone had remote access.”
My fingers loosen on the blanket.
Remote access?
“What does that mean? How much access?”
“Email. Browser. Files. Some system controls.”
His pause tells me there is more. And I am not going to like it.
“What else?”
His jaw tightens.
“Possibly your webcam.”
All the breath leaves me, and I just stare at him.
The room seems to pull back from me, the bed, the fire, the chair, all of it suddenly too far away. Like, I'm in a whole different room, watching this from afar.
“My webcam.”
“We are still confirming the extent.”
“My webcam,” I repeat, because my brain cannot move past those two words.
Mario seems like he wants to come to me, then stops himself.
“They may not have watched continuously.”
“That is supposed to help?”
“No.”
I press both hands to my face.
Oh God.
My apartment.
My bed.
The laptop open on the coffee table while I sat there, searching Anna Conti, Mario Conti, morning nausea, early pregnancy.
And sometimes I left it open too. Did someone see me in a towel? Naked?
My stomach turns violently.
