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PROLOGUE

Rylan

My mother was a walking, talking manual on how not to parent a child—seriously, the woman should’ve been paid to advertise contraceptives.

She would have relished the attention.

Once, she was a model; her beauty was a currency she spent freely before I bankrupted her. My interest rate was high: permanent stretch marks, fatigue under the eyes, and hips that no longer fit sample-size clothes.

It didn’t matter how many skincare items she bought. The exhaustion was always there on her face, as if she was scared all the time that someone was gonna come after her and point out all her flaws.

I can immediately give you two examples of why my mother would be the Super Bowl advertisement—I’m talking primetime golden commercial—of how to be a hazardous parent.

Example A: She told me it was fine to put metal in the microwave; the sparks cook the food faster. And if that damn machine caught on fire, it was my fault for not watching it closely enough.

I remember clearly her speaking the words as she admired her reflection in the glossy pane, as if those tiny dots on the microwave door helped hide her aging face.

But one thing came out of her unfiltered, insensitive mouth that stuck to me like gum on a shoe—because that’s all I ever was: a mistake she walked into, and now had to suffer with.

Example B: She once said people were like cars; some were meant to get from point A to point B. Some cars you show off. Others, you park a block away. And most importantly, some cars you leave in the garage because they are not worth the hassle or upkeep.

Does that make you wonder what type of car you are?

CHAPTER 1

Rylan

One hour before Rylan (aka me) no longer exists.

Tonight I was going to scream bloody murder.

Don’t worry. It’s cause for celebration.

I just had to survive until I could part my lips and let out a roar of such satisfaction that the burning in my throat wouldn’t matter. Nothing would matter because Rylan would be gone.

Getting a new identity was oddly delightful; it erased the guilt of everything I had been forced to do.

Blood pools in my mouth, the sting of a fresh bite painting my tongue. I swallow, the metallic tang scraping down my desert-dry throat. I lick my lips, wiping away the last of the blood.

Is this a good sign or a bad omen? Was my accidental chair flip like a sacrifice?

Why didn’t I grab a drink? Even a stale snack would do—anything to drown out this iron aftertaste! I should’ve played the good Catholic and turned it into a communion: a little blood for the wine, a little snack to wash it all down.

Because you were too busy preparing to pull off a hack that would make the darkest corners of the web drool.

I was daring to hack the most dangerous people known on this side of the world. The founding families of BANKS Corp. A database company that stores data for all the major corporations. You know what that means in today’s dictionary? They can blackmail the shit out of you. Digital footprints never fully erase, folks. Trust me, the shit the NSA has—undisclosed shit I might have poked into—can dig up anything, anytime, anywhere.

Which means as careful as I’ve been, I can still get caught.

I have no option but to point a finger and lay a trail of breadcrumbs towards someone else to buy myself time to run.

I lean back to look at the ceiling, lose my balance, and flail my arms like a mime artist on crack. Straightening up, I grab the legs of the cheap chair Frank ordered online. It always wobbles, a testament to Frank’s talent for breaking, not building. Case in point: my confidence, which I’ve only just reclaimed. Striking a match and watching everything he made go up in flames is a new kind of euphoria.

I think I like it.

Not that I’m crazy—I wouldn’t order this amount of chaos with every ice cream sundae. But now and then, a cherry on top with extra sprinkles feels good. Serving Frank a giant fuck you? Even better.

Please let this hack work.