by Isabel Jolie
“Yep. You can come and get it when you want it.” I grinned up at the corner and pushed my chest out so he could see the faded Washington letters.
“Bitch.”
“Asswipe,” I retorted, glaring up at the circular glass.
“Whatever. Can you create those profiles for me?”
“If you explain to me exactly how it’s safe for you to be in Portland.” And not me.
“You spoke to Mom?”
“Yes. Was she not supposed to tell me?” A wind tunnel sound vibrated through the phone line, as if he let out a long exhale. Is he actually annoyed at me for asking?
“No. It wasn’t a secret. We’ve been over this before. I travel incognito. I had them meet me in Portland. I took precautions.”
“And you can’t set me up with the same precautions?”
“No. Well, maybe. Give me time.”
“Time? Erik, it’s been a year. A year of this bullshit. You told me you’d get this under control. This wasn’t supposed to be permanent.”
“I know. I know. It’s complicated.”
“You don’t know how to get out, do you?”
“I am out. I told you. But while I’m working to stop Kane, I need to keep you safe. He’s proven how vindictive he can be. You know this.” I did. His hired goons trashed my apartment. And according to Erik, he’d done far worse to a colleague’s girlfriend. Hence the reason Erik squirreled me away where I couldn’t be found. Apparently, Kane held a deep respect for older generations, so Erik believed he wouldn’t harm Mom or Dad.
“Can’t you go to the FBI? Or I can—”
“Jesus, Cali. Is that what you want? For me to spend the rest of my life behind bars?”
“No. That would kill Mom and Dad.”
“Gee. Thanks, Cal.”
“Erik. Of course I don’t want that for you. But you are the one who got yourself into this.” At this point, I was a broken record. There was no point in rehashing a tired argument without a good resolution.
“I’m fixing it.” He’d said this before.
“Well, fix it faster.”
“Cali, I swear. I’m doing everything I can.”
Except turning yourself in and getting help from the authorities. The words were on the tip of my tongue, but I held them back. Because he wouldn’t do it. And I didn’t really want him to. Yeah, he pissed me off, but I loved him.
“Look. Heat is on right now.” Tell me something new.
“Heat’s always on.”
“No. Not like this. Someone anonymously posted info on a board about us. Russia, China, Venezuela, Cuba…you name a country, they want us. Those are a lot of unscrupulous countries searching for us.”
“But they’d never figure out who you are. And you’re not even with that group now.”
“You think there’s an active employee directory? And the post mentioned a splinter group. Which makes us even bigger targets. And don’t forget, Kane knows I have a twin. He knows what you look like. AI recognition will pick you up in an airport.”
“You can’t keep me here forever.” The trouble with my brilliant brother was he saw too many possibilities—too many ways for a plan to play out. The ability made him an amazing game player, but it bred paranoia. I found it difficult to believe this guy living in Asia was actively monitoring feeds from airports.
“Cali, I need more time. I promise, I’m doing my best.” An awkward pause filled the line as disappointment crushed around me. I don’t know what I expected or hoped, but nothing changed. Nothing ever changed. “And you’ll get me those profiles?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Thanks. I don’t have the time to do it myself.” My brother’s ex-partner, or boss might be apropos, scared him. Terrified him. He’d never said those exact words, but the extent to which he’d gone to protect me spoke volumes. Whenever my anger surged, I needed to remind myself of this. “I promise you. My plan is coming together. I need you to stay out of the way. Please?”
“I just want to go home for a visit.”
“Soon. Any more Howl at the Moon events planned?”
“No.”
“Well, if you want to hang out with your neighbor, Poppy, I think she’s fine. I’ve done a background check. And the guy she lives with, he’s clear too. But I expect the feds are watching him, for other reasons, so be aware when you’re in his home it could be bugged.”
“You know, I truly believe you have become insanely paranoid. Like, I know you’d never ever see a therapist, but—”
“I’m not saying for sure, but it’s possible. The guy’s being investigated by the Justice Department and the SEC.”
“They dropped the investigation.”
“Don’t huff.”
“Why? You huff.”
“Cali, just… what else?”
“I was asked out on a date.” A smile broke out on my face. It wasn’t so much the prospect of a date that had me smiling up at that black globe as it was that I liked rubbing my asshat brother the wrong way.
“By who?”
“The head of Public Safety. I met him at Howl at the Moon.”
“The cop? But you didn’t tell me?”
“I’m telling you now.”
“I researched him back when he first came to the island. I told you, he’s former military.”
“Was.” Sometimes I couldn’t help but question if Erik was truly worried about my safety or if he worried more about the prospect of me unwittingly giving away information that could lead to him getting caught. A prolonged silence filled the line, and I flicked the mouse, bringing my screen to life.
“You know, he’s probably just a washed-up cop. In the last year, he’s left you alone. To prove to you I’m not overly paranoid, if you want to go out with him, go ahead. Be careful. Don’t do anything to make him suspicious.”
“You’re giving me permission?” The idea kind of pissed me off. But at the same time, it excited me. I could go out for that drink without a nagging conscience.
“Jesus, Cali. I can’t win with you. Look, my goal isn’t to make your life miserable. It’s keeping you safe. This’ll all be over soon.”
I nodded.
“Cali, look at the camera.”
I gritted my teeth and faced the glass globe.
“It’ll all be over soon.”
Chapter 7
Cali
* * *
Hey, you just passed me. Where’d you go? Want to meet up for that drink?
I’d carried my iPhone with me so I could easily check out the photos Mom shared, and therefore, I received Logan’s text.
The Image Creator Icon whirled, indicating the software processed the commands, or as I preferred to think of it, spun magic. I sipped my tea, waiting. Re-reading the text. I now had my brother’s quote-unquote permission. But I’d still have to be careful.
In uniform, Logan possessed a commanding air. And, when I first moved here, he’d been clean-shaven, his dark hair cut close to the scalp. Out of uniform, that night on the beach, in shorts and flip-flops, with his shirttail out, he came across like any of the other guys on vacation. Hints of gray peppered his beard, giving him an older, more distinguished vibe. He didn’t have any hints of gray in his thick hair that I’d noticed, but in that beard, he did. His shirt hung loosely on his waist, a trim waist I imagined flaunted a six-pack, given the way he looked in uniform with a thick leather belt and gun holster.
I envisioned him in one of my study groups, attempting to blend in with my band of nerds. He’d overwhelm the frame of a wooden library chair. I could also see myself straddling his lap in said chair… I shook the vision away. Spending time with him could be fun. And I could easily play the divorce card if he seemed too inquisitive.
Fully loaded, my in-progress profile came to life with a flicker of bright light. Photos of images I’d found of real people, online, filled squares on my screen, the friends of a San Bernardino Valley resident and the spouse of a congressman. I got the formula now. She was t
he kind of woman who knew so many people, she wouldn’t think twice about accepting a friend who looked vaguely familiar. She and her husband also wanted a large friend group to shout out their messages to, so they probably accepted every single friend request. And she had politically involved friends. I didn’t select the profile targets for Erik, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to understand the logic.
I pulled the eyebrows from one photo, the lips from another, the brow and hair from a middle-aged woman. I gathered all the elements and hit the merge button. A circular button appeared as the software performed its magic. The low hum of the fans and machines irked me. I pressed play, and the Chainsmokers filled the room with a pulsing beat.
Despite my desire to blare the music, the volume remained low—always low. Privacy. No need to raise questions. I’d love to have one enormous window on the back wall. But the black machines in cages with all their blinking lights required a steady, controlled temperature. My job with the machines was limited to light dusting and checking temperatures. Although an alert would sound if the temperature rose too high.
It was funny. Back when I led a normal life, I was an introvert, but I still had friends and a life. It was a little scary how easily I settled into a life of seclusion. Jasmine, my pupil extraordinaire, saved me this past year. Spending my days studying with her gave me a semblance of my old life. Once school started, I’d miss her. No need to be sad. You’ll see her in the afternoons.
Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.
An image downloaded on screen. A bizarre Frankenstein-like creation. I searched the subject’s feed and found a different photo for hair, pulled up PhotoShop, and altered it a bit, lengthening it. Replaced the hair and studied the unfinished facial image.
“Erik, I hope you know what you’re doing.” No one responded. I chewed on my nails. Not enough to bite them off. My grandmother rid me of that habit when I was in elementary school. But enough to soothe.
I picked up my iPhone and typed in a response.
Working tonight. What are you up to?
Then I deleted the text without sending it. After completing a round of profiles and sending them off into the ether, I closed up and went home. The profiles would be used as part of Erik’s efforts to fight the ongoing disinformation campaigns. Fake profiles to counter other fake profiles. When Facebook originally created their algorithms, they simply wanted the most entertaining posts to rise to the top, so college students would see funny drunk posts over the boring I-Ran-Three-Miles posts. And they’d keep coming back for the entertainment. I seriously doubted anyone ever had the foresight to realize how a seemingly benign algorithm could be used to foster propaganda.
I didn’t mind helping my brother with this task because I knew for every fake account that successfully distributed accurate information, there were other fake accounts spewing lies. All the accounts posted and followed, hoping one person would like or share, and another person would see a trusted friend shared, thus adding an additional layer to a web of lies.
Once home, I dropped my bag. The darkness bothered me. The walls closed in. I called Nym and headed back outside. The wheels crunched the asphalt. As I turned right, then left, winding my way through the back streets of the newly constructed Cape Fear Station neighborhood, I found myself in front of Logan’s cottage. Way back when I first responded to Tate’s ad and subsequently discovered the island, Erik had called.
* * *
“We might have a problem.”
“That sounds like the understatement of the year,” I said.
“Cali. I thought we were through this.”
“Through it? I had to move to the East Coast. I feel like I’m in hiding.”
“Cali, I promise. It’s only for a few months.”
“Why are you calling me?”
“I did a background check on everyone working on Haven.”
“And?”
“The Public Safety Director is former military intelligence. He also worked for Chicago PD. The house he bought is new construction, so it’s not showing on Google Earth yet. Can you swing by?”
“What exactly am I looking for?”
“I want you to check out his roof. Look for anything he might use to extend his Wi-Fi.”
“Send me the address.”
* * *
I pulled up outside of the cottage I’d scoped out back then. A nice covered porch graced the front with three windows set on the second story. One Adirondack chair sat off to the side of the porch. Warm light flowed through the large downstairs windows, highlighting the wide panes in the modern farmhouse style. Well-manicured green grass filled the small patch of land between the porch and lane, and a narrow path with gray stone pavers led up to the front door. The cart inched forward. Floodlights lit the darkness from the side of the driveway. Motion-controlled lights—not surprising.
Few of the houses installed them. Heck, most people in this town didn’t even bother locking doors. That was one aspect Erik didn’t think through. He forced top-of-the-line security on me, not realizing that for all his efforts to not attract attention, that security did exactly that. With Nym around, it wasn’t like I needed the locks…theoretically.
All the houses on Writer’s Way, Logan’s short street, were dark. A low hum of crickets filled the air, and if one listened hard, the indistinct sound of crashing waves cut through the tree line. I pressed the gas, easing away from the peaceful setting.
The solid wood front door, painted black, opened, letting out a flood of yellow light onto the middle of the covered porch.
“Cali?”
Shit. “Hey. I was riding by…” I floundered for words. His street was hardly a major thoroughfare. He stepped across the porch and down two steps. “I couldn’t sleep and was just out riding around.”
“No worries. I spend most of my nights riding around.”
“You do?”
The corners of his lips turned up into a slight smile, and he continued down the path, closer to me. “Insomniac. Right here.” His thumb angled at his chest. “Nice to meet another one.”
“It’s late. I wasn’t really…” I held my hand up over my forehead. Talking to Nym was easier.
“My bedroom’s right there.” He pointed to the large windows overlooking the front porch. “I saw you pull up. I wasn’t sure it was you until the floodlight came on. Come sit.”
“It’s after eleven.”
“I won’t be sleeping. It’s a gorgeous night.” He pointed up at the sky filled with stars, bright specks of light dotting the dark canvas.
I twisted the key and followed him. My nerves rebelled. My insides jumbled. Uncertainty twirled. I wiped my palms. Ridiculous. There’s no reason to be nervous.
He sat down on the third step of his porch, to one side of the railing. I joined him, my back to the far-facing railing.
“I like your home.”
“Do you want to look inside?”
“No, thanks. That’s okay.”
“Want anything to drink?”
“No. I should probably—”
“Sit. Talk. The offer for that drink stands. But hang out.”
The quiet filled the night air, and I looked through his wide windows. They opened into a living area, and stairs were off to the side.
“Aren’t you worried about bugs?”
“Screens. I leave the windows open most of the time. Unless the heat gets too oppressive.”
“I guess that means you believe the island is pretty safe, huh?” My question earned a chuckle.
“We don’t have a lot of crime. Besides, the most valuable thing I have is a TV. How is anyone going to get that off the island without raising eyebrows?”
“What about your computer?”
“I access everything of importance on a VPN. If someone did nab my ancient laptop, they wouldn’t get much. I suppose if someone stole it, I’d see it as a blessing. Excuse for an upgrade.”
Well, that answered that. Erik would appreciate the confirmation Logan di
dn’t represent any kind of risk to his operation.
“That’s a good dog. My old dog would have never in a million stayed like that.” Nym’s ears perked forward.
“He’s the best.”
“Can I call him over?”
“Here,” I commanded. Nym leaped off the seat, tail wagging, and trotted straight to me. “Sit.”
Logan crouched down before Nym, scratching near his ears and all around his head.
“You said old dog.” I halted, realizing nothing good came from the question I mindlessly headed down.
“The ex-wife got the dog.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, that’s our common ground.”
“What?”
“We’re both divorced.” He shrugged, like what else could I possibly be thinking. And for the first time since telling it, discomfort rose around that portion of my cover story. And I couldn’t even be mad at Erik. That bit had been my moment of brilliance, creating a reason for a single woman to hibernate on an island. A reason that would mean no one wondered how a tutor had money to live in an oceanfront home.
“Do you miss your dog?”
“Yeah, I do. More than the wife.” His smile fell, and I suspected that wasn’t an entirely truthful answer. “What about you? I see you got the dog?”
“Oh. No. Nym is mine.” He tilted his head in a way that asked for me to say more. To continue talking. “I don’t like talking about that time in my life.” Another clever angle of my cover story—no one questioned a divorced woman not wanting to share. I expected most would welcome a closed-lipped divorced woman.
“I get that. My divorce was two years ago. Well… it became final less than a year ago. The process takes a while, obviously. Is your divorce final?”
I bent over my legs, stretching out my lower back, and zoned in on the gray-painted step beneath my feet. “Yeah. It’s final. What kind of dog did you have?”