Hacker

by Camille Picott

He laughs. “I’ll have every part of you that matters.” He leans in again, sucking on the other side of her neck.

  One of her arms is trapped between their bodies, the other pinned to her side. Something bites into her forearm. She’s so scared that at first she doesn’t notice the pain. It’s not until she feels the wet trickle of blood that her attention snaps to it.

  The shard of glass Lydia gave her. It’s still wedged into her belt. She has a weapon.

  Jacob pulls back just long enough to look into her eyes. What she sees in his dark depths terrifies her.

  When he squeezes her breast again, she takes advantage of the slight shift of his body. She snakes her hand toward the piece of glass and yanks it free.

  Jacob’s hand tightens reflexively on the base of her ponytail as she moves. But Hank doesn’t need to move her head. She knows exactly where his stomach is.

  She plunges the shard of glass straight into his abdomen. His gasp of shock sends a sting of hot breath across her neck and ear.

  Baring her teeth, Hank pulls it out and shoves it in again, this time twisting.

  “You will not have me,” she growls.

  His eyes fog over with pain and shock. Hank pushes him.

  This time, his hand falls free from her hair. He stumbles back. Hank pounces, slashing with her blade of glass.

  When Jacob falls to the ground, she straddles him, stabbing him with the piece of glass over and over again.

  There’s blood everywhere. She’s not sure how much of it is his. How much of it is hers. She doesn’t know and she doesn’t care. She screams down at Jacob, a wordless, animalistic sound.

  “Hank!” Someone grabs her wrist.

  Hank twists, automatically raising the glass blade to defend against this new attacker.

  Her eyes meet those of Lydia’s. The other girl is covered in blood, but on her feet.

  Hank’s eyes skitter across the room, looking for Ace.

  He is lying motionless on the floor, surrounded by a widening pool of blood. The back of his head is caved in. Hank sees the wrought-iron shoe on the floor next to him.

  Their combined breaths rasp in the sudden quiet. Hanks steels herself to look down at Jacob.

  “You did it. You didn’t stop. He can’t hurt you now,” Lydia says.

  No one is ever going to hurt her again. Hank looks up. “Where’s your switchblade?” she asks the other girl.

  Lydia hesitates, then draws the blade and hands it to her.

  Hands shaking, Hank extracts herself from Jacob. She crosses to a corner of the shop, positioning herself so that her back is protected and she can keep an eye on her surroundings.

  Turning her head, she lets her long ponytail slide over her shoulder. The long mane glisten in the darkness. It’s the only beautiful thing Hank has. Tonight, that hair—her vanity—almost got her killed.

  Never again.

  She raises the knife and begins to saw. She grips the strands in one fist, wadding them together. The switchblade, bloody and rusty, is surprisingly sharp. It parts the thick red locks with ease.

  Tears run down her face. Her body shakes from a cold adrenal crash. But she doesn’t stop sawing until all that remains of her ponytail is a frayed stump.

  Never again. Never again will she grow her hair long. Vanity is a liability. Hank won’t be that stupid again.

  Lydia watches the procedure in silence. When Hank is finished, Lydia leans down and gathers up the gossamer red tresses. She picks up every stray piece, meticulously removing evidence of Hank’s presence.

  “Come on,” Lydia says. “I’ll get you a new set of clothes.”

  *

  Thirty-five minutes later, Hank has scrubbed herself clean. She wears a completely new set of clothing from Lydia. A practical pair of cargo pants, a long-sleeved shirt, and a thick sweater that will keep her warm. Her feet are tucked in a soft pair of worn sneakers. They are nicer than anything Hank has ever owned in her life.

  Lydia even took a pair of shears and did her best to even out Hank’s hair. The other girl had the presence of mind to shove the cut-off ponytail down a gutter a few blocks over, dropping it onto a heap of trash swarming with rats. The shorter strands in her bathroom all went down the toilet.

  “What will you do now?” Hank asks her.

  “I don’t suppose Logan will leave me alone?”

  Hank shakes her head. “You’ve already been bought and paid for. You may have another few hours before he sends someone else to look for Ace and Jacob.”

  Hank shudders, trying not to recall the grisly scene they left behind in the shoe repair shop.

  “I’ll start over somewhere else,” Lydia says. “It isn’t the first time I’ve done it. You said you wiped out all records of my existence?”

  Hank nods. “Lydia Allen no longer exists.”

  “Good. Then from this moment forward, I’m Tracie Sharp.”

  Hank looks at the other girl, not envying her position. She may have survived, but Logan still managed to kill her identity and her history. How will she make it? Hank doesn’t know.

  She keeps these thoughts to herself, knowing they’re no use to Lydia. “Good luck, Tracie Sharp.”

  “You, too. Maybe we’ll see each other again someday.”

  “Maybe.” Hank swallows, her throat raw and aching.

  She isn’t sure she ever wants to see Lydia again. Hank would rather erase the last two hours of her life. Just forget they ever happened and move on.

  Unable to find anything more to say, Hank steps out the front door and quietly closes it behind her. She retrieves her bike and pedals home as the sun fills the sky with the dull gray light of morning.

  9

  Wings

  ––––––––

  Why do you want to attend Virtual High School?

  That’s easy. Hank taps in her answer.

  Because my parents eke out a living by commuting to the local garbage dump and prospecting for anything and everything that’s recyclable. We barely have enough to eat and my parents smell like trash all the time.

  Or how about: I don’t want to spend the rest of my life helping criminals kill innocent people.

  Or, if she is totally honest: Because I helped kill two men last night and I’m terrified to go back to work today. I’m terrified my boss will find out and have me and my family killed. A scholarship to Virtual High will help me get out of this hole I’ve dug for myself and build a better life for my family.

  Except that Virtual High can’t save her. Nothing can save her from Logan. She’s not even allowed to send in her application. The only reason she’s even looking at it is because Jasper brought her the tablet this morning in front of her family. Better to pretend than to deal with awkward questions she can’t answer.

  The entire morning with her family has been one big facade. She can’t tell them her world changed yesterday. She can’t even tell them how hungry and exhausted she is.

  “Sissy, where did you get this nice jacket?” Timmy snuggles up next to her, touching the soft fabric.

  “A friend,” she replies. She squeezes him in a tight hug. When his hollowed cheeks curve into a smile, she thinks her heart might burst with love for her little brother.

  “Your whole outfit is new.” Her mother sits in one of the camp chairs. “Did you get a bonus at work?”

  Yeah. That would be the day.

  “Hand-me-downs from a friend I met through work,” Hank replies.

  “Is this the same friend who cut your hair?” her father asks.

  “Yeah. Do you like it?” Hank turns her head, pretending to let them admire her shorn locks. In truth, she’s hoping to hide the shame and self-loathing lurking inside her. She’s afraid they’ll see the guilt stamped in her eyes if she looks at them for too long.

  “I love it,” her mom says with a smile. “Very cute. And practical.”

  “Now you won’t need so much shampoo,” Timmy says.

  Hank ruffles his shaggy hair. “Now we match,” sh
e tells him. “People might mistake us for twins now that we have the same haircut.”

  “Ew!” Timmy exclaims. “I don’t want anyone to think I’m a girl!”

  They all laugh. As Hank takes in the smiling faces of her family and the love the four of them share, it all seems worth it. The killing. The murder. Her family is worth the weight she will forever carry. That weight will grow daily under Logan’s direction, but she will shoulder it for them.

  “We better get going. We can’t miss the bus.” Her father stands, slinging a large empty sack over his shoulder. It’s been patched together from many pieces of fabric. Her mother carries a similar one.

  An unpleasant aroma wafts from the bags, no matter how often they wash them. The smell of the garbage dump can’t ever be washed away entirely.

  “You know what they say,” Mom says cheerfully. “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”

  She often says this when heading to work. Hank doesn’t know where her mother finds her optimism.

  “Oh, Hank, I got something for you. Found it yesterday.” Mom pulls a shiny gold object from her pocket.

  Hank takes it, breath catching in her throat. It’s a necklace with a pair of small, golden wings. The tip of one wing is broken, but other than that, it’s practically brand-new.

  “It’s not real gold,” Mom says, “but it’s still pretty. Can you believe someone just threw that away?” She shakes her head.

  Hank clasps the golden wings in a fist, holding it close to her heart. She wants so much for them to be real wings. “Thanks, Mom. I love it.”

  Her parents shoulder their sacks and say goodbye. Timmy scampers out to find other kids to play with. Hank is left alone with Jasper’s tablet, her golden wings, and her VHS application.

  Why do you want to attend Virtual High School?

  The question hangs in front of her, burning a hole through into her heart. She squeezes the golden wings, then sets them aside and begins to type.

  I want to attend Virtual High School so that I may one day provide for my family. Get them a better place to live. Buy them enough food to eat and maybe even a few extra pieces of clothing. Get my parents, literally, out of the garbage dump. I want to give them a better life because I love each of them more than I love myself. I want to give them all wings to fly away to a better life.

  It’s the truth. At her core is her family and her desire to take care of them. She’d rather do it by educating herself and getting a real job rather than working for people like Logan the rest of her life. Too bad that choice has been taken away from her.

  Her finger hovers over the “Send” button. More than anything, she wants to hit send. But she doesn’t.

  Instead, she turns off the tablet. Her application disappears from the screen, taking Hank’s hopes with it.

  *

  She spends the rest of the day knotted up with anxiety. Will Logan suspect what she’s done? Will he figure it out? Will he take one look at her face and know she betrayed him?

  She changes her clothes before heading to work. Logan and the others at East Bay Delivery will notice if she has an entirely new outfit.

  Just act normal, she tells herself. Be rude and snarky and pretend like everything is normal.

  Her shoes had been too bloodstained to keep. She’d left them in a dumpster on her way home, which only left her with the new pair from Lydia. To be on the safe side, she rubs dirt on Lydia’s shoes. She even rubs a little on her neck and forehead for good measure, because everyone knows she doesn’t have enough money to pay for regular showers.

  When she arrives at work that evening, the air is brittle with tension. She pretends not to notice, rolling her eyes at Andy and Frank, the two boys keeping watch at the top of the stairwell tonight.

  Everyone knows she never misses a chance to take a dig at Jacob. She can’t stop now, even though he’s dead.

  “Where’s Idiot One and Idiot Two?” she asks. “Don’t tell me they’re afraid of the cold and need their mommies to keep warm.” Temps dropped into the low thirties last night. Her comment is right on target.

  When Andy and Frank exchange glances, she puts a hand on her hip and narrows her eyes. “What?” she says.

  “Logan’s in a bad mood,” Andy tells her.

  The only thing to do is to play dumb. It’s her only defense. “Why? What’s up?”

  “Jacob and Ace didn’t come home last night,” Andy replies in a low voice.

  She raises her brows. “Why is that a big deal? They probably just got drunk at a strip club and passed out.”

  Frank shakes his head. “That’s what we thought, too, but Logan sent some of the guys out to track them down. Found them dead on 18th Street. Jacob was stabbed to death. Ace had his skull cracked open. Someone jumped our boys and murdered them in cold blood.”

  Hank doesn’t have to fake the horror she feels. Andy gives her a light punch in the shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’ll be okay. Logan will find out who did it and make them pay. You don’t have to be afraid.”

  You don’t have to be afraid, Hank tells herself a short while later when she’s led into Logan’s office.

  The mural behind one the back wall is taking shape—palm trees painted strategically to frame Logan’s desk. There’s no sign of the painter today.

  “You wanted to see me?” Hank says, entering the office.

  “Sit,” Logan tells her. His eyes boil with something dark.

  The back of Hank’s neck prickles with fear. She sits in the indicated chair. “I heard about Jacob and Ace,” she says.

  “Mmm,” he replies. “Very unfortunate. Those two had potential.”

  She doesn’t reply. Even now, with their blood on her hands, Hank can’t think of a single nice thing to say about either of them.

  “You had a difficult day yesterday,” Logan says. “You and Mr. Thames were close.”

  There’s no use denying it. “He was kind to me,” she replies. “He was a friend.”

  “I miss him, too. I was sorry to see him go.” Logan’s mouth tightens. “But he betrayed me. Tried to interfere with my business. My feelings about an employee don’t matter if he breaks the rules.” His eyes sharpen on her. “That rule applies to everyone. Where were you last night?”

  Hank’s heart skips in her chest. Cold sweat bathes her back. She fights to keep her face neutral. “I was here working with Tristan.”

  “Where did you go afterward?”

  “Home.”

  He studies her face, eyes flicking to her head. “Did you get your haircut on the way home?”

  She shakes her head, tamping down the sudden paranoia that his men may have found her shorn locks at the bottom of the gutter where Lydia dropped them. “I cut it myself. A friend of mine evened out the edges for me.” She runs a hand through her short hair without having to fake her self-consciousness. “I can’t afford a hairdresser.”

  “Hmm,” he says in response. He continues to study her.

  She swallows, desperate to break the silence. She doesn’t dare. Everyone knows Logan dictates conversations in his office.

  “I know Jacob had a thing for you. He wasn’t subtle about it. Did that bother you?”

  “He was a jerk, but whatever. Lots of guys are jerks.”

  “Do you know anything about their murders?”

  “Only what Frank and Andy told me on the way in.” She doesn’t have to fake her shudder.

  “Why did you cut your hair?”

  Back to that again. Hank squirms in her seat. Part of the squirming is authentic, because Logan really does make her nervous, but most of it is for show. She looks away, as though embarrassed.

  “You know my family doesn’t have a lot of money.”

  “I fail to see what that has to do with your hair. It doesn’t cost you anything to grow it.”

  “Do you know what shampoo costs? What water costs?” She tries not to snap, but can’t quite manage it. The stress of the moment—of the past day—are building in her. “Do
you know how much longer I need to stand in the shower to get it clean? I’m poor, Logan. You know that better than anyone. Cutting my hair means we’ll have a little more money to spend on food.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest and slumps back in her chair, sending a silent thank you to Timmy for his dig at her shampoo consumption this morning.

  If Logan is at all affected by her outward display of emotion, he doesn’t react to it. “Your shoes are new.”

  “New-ish,” she corrects. “My mom found them for me at the dump.” Thank goodness she thought of soiling them on her way here. “Do you know how hard it is to find a matching pair of shoes?”

  Slowly, almost lazily, Logan nods. “It was not my intent to insult you.”

  She supposes this is his way of apologizing. Well, it’s better than being hauled down to the kill room.

  “Someone targeted my people.” Logan’s eyes cut through her. “I’m questioning everyone, even those I assume to be innocent. I believe in being thorough. Whoever targeted my company will pay for Jacob and Ace’s murders.”

  He pushes his chair back and opens his top desk drawer. Extracting a torn piece of paper, he pushes it across the desk to her.

  “Here’s your work for today. I expect you to make Mr. Thames proud.”

  Hank picks up the sheet of paper, stomach knotting with dread. Two names, along with addresses, are scrawled on the sheet.

  Karen Johnson and Robert Carranza. Those are the next people she’s supposed to erase.

  “You can go now,” Logan says.

  Hank rises, her legs wooden as she exits the office.

  She can’t stop staring at the paper in her hand, at the names she is supposed to erase.

  This is her future. A combination of fearing for her life and loathing herself for participating in murder.

  How long had Mr. Thames done this? What caused him to betray Logan? Had he been trying to do the right thing like she had last night?

  He’s going to find out.

  Sooner or later. It might be later, but Hank has a chilling fear that Logan will find out the truth. When he does, he’ll kill her. Along with Timmy, Mom, and Dad.