by Barnes, Vivi
It’s just a competition, I remind myself. Just for fun.
I sit up straight in my chair and nod tersely at Sam, my hands poised over the keyboard.
Sam nods. “Go!”
I start with a basic search on the bank first, since it sounds like a smaller, local one. Sure enough, it’s a small bank out of Rockford, Illinois. There are a couple of Samuel Calderons there, but one is eighteen, the other thirty-six. I pick the thirty-six-year-old. I find the years he attended high school and a LinkedIn page with scant information. Not much to go on. This Samuel Calderon doesn’t even have a blog or much of a web presence at all. My eyes rise over the screen to see Jose busy scribbling things down on his paper. Crap.
My heartbeat almost matching the quick tapping of my keystrokes, I do a quick search for his high school yearbook and find a few images someone posted to Facebook. I find Samuel Calderon’s name and scan over to look closely at his face—skinny, full lips, high cheekbones. Weird-looking guy.
Finally, I find a mention of a Samuel Calderon in his high school alumni records—and an AOL address. Part one is complete, but that’s usually the easiest anyway.
I open a separate window for the bank and paste the e-mail address, then press the button to request a password reset.
Error message.
Damn it. Old e-mail address. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. I go back to the LinkedIn page and peruse it again but of course, there are no e-mail addresses. I scan down. No mention of any companies he’s worked for, but several organizations and groups are listed. I know most, but there are two—NCTE and HRC—that I don’t recognize. I enter the letters into Google.
Wha—?
Organizations for transgender people? Holy cow! A giggle threatens to bubble up inside of me, but I suppress it. I look over the monitor, but Jose’s face is scrunched in concentration. I’ll bet anything he hasn’t noticed this yet. I sit back for just a second and look at the name again. Samuel Calderon. He could go by another name altogether, of course, but Samuel = Sam = Samantha. I lean forward and type “Samantha Calderon Rockford” and click on the images.
Immediately, there are a few pictures displayed of a blond woman with similar features to that yearbook picture of Samuel Calderon, down to the large teeth. I wonder briefly why he didn’t go all the way and get the teeth fixed.
I switch over to the bank account. I go back to the results and find a Facebook page for him—and an e-mail address using his new name. I glance at Z, who’s now sitting in one of the vacant challenger chairs, eyes intent on me. He raises an eyebrow and I give him a small smile. He nods, looking way too confident in me. I swallow hard and turn back to input the e-mail into the bank account. It accepts it, but I can’t reset the password until I figure out how to get into the e-mail account.
The password for the e-mail account—these can be so simple to figure out, since people can be really stupid when it comes to security, but there’s usually a limited number of attempts. And I’m guessing since this is a competition, it won’t be something so obvious as “password.” Instead, I go to the security question for e-mail password reset. “Who was your best friend in high school?”
Okay, so back to Facebook. I find “in a relationship with Philippe Martinez.” I type various versions of the first and last name into the security question but it doesn’t work. The Facebook page has a few pictures posted—mostly Samantha with friends, but there is a cute little schnauzer in two of the pictures. The comments mention it by name: Espanol. Why couldn’t that be her security question? I try it for the actual e-mail password, but it doesn’t work, either.
I go back to Calderon’s Facebook page and look at her friends. There are only about seven hundred of them, and I have to figure out which one was her best friend in high school. I scan through the pictures posted but don’t see any from high school. Impossible. Maybe I should just keep trying the password instead.
I read down her news feed and notice some light conversations with various people. Then this as a status update:
Thank you to everyone for supporting my debut today!
And a picture of her book, Making the Change, with a link to Amazon. An idea occurs to me. I click on the link and open the preview pane, scrolling through the pages until I get to the dedication:
Thank you to Jenny for always encouraging me to believe in myself, to make the change and start a whole new life. Forever in your debt.
My blood is pounding in my ears so hard that I can’t hear the chatter around me. Jenny sounds pretty important. Jenny, please be the best friend from high school.
I cross my fingers and switch to the screen with the security question. I type Jenny into the box and the CAPTCHA code, then enter date of birth and zip code as second verification and click the next button.
And I’m in! I reset the password and open up the e-mail account. I almost bounce up and down in my seat, but Jose is starting to look a little too confident. Instead, I scrunch my eyebrows together and try to look worried as I go back to the bank site and request a password reset for that account, too. I tap my fingers on the keyboard, impatient for the e-mail to come through. Finally, a new message appears in the window. My fingers are flying now for the last steps.
Hacked.
I smack my hand down on the bell so hard I’m sure there’s a hole in my palm. Sam moves quickly behind me to review my screen, along with the throng of kids. I can’t help but grin at the shocked expression on Jose’s face.
“Winner!” Sam calls out gleefully, and the room erupts into deafening cheers. Everyone’s patting me on the back, laughing, passing money around.
There’s one person not shouting or saying anything at all. Z just looks at me with a huge grin and pride shining in his eyes. No smirk, and none of the arrogance that usually marks his face. Only a kind of pure joy that makes me want to jump up and down like a child.
The energy from all the excitement makes my blood pound through my veins in double time. All the other noise is just background as Z reaches out a hand to help me up. This time, I accept. For an exciting second, we’re so close that I wonder if he might kiss me. But other arms quickly pull us apart, congratulating me again on the victory. I lose track of who’s who as the other kids try to introduce themselves, one speaking over the other.
A light touch brushes my elbow, making me jump. Z is next to me, nodding toward the door. As he steers me out of the room, Sam runs up to us, her face glowing.
“Hey, girl! You don’t want to forget this!” She shoves a handful of bills into my hand.
“What’s this for?”
“Duh, it’s for winning the challenge. You kicked ass, you know that?” She leans closer to my ear. “And kicked Jose’s ass, which is always a good thing.” She tosses a triumphant grin Jose’s way, like she just showed him up. She links her arm through mine to walk with us into the main area of the home. “So Z finally convinced you to visit us, huh?” she says. “Great timing!”
Finally? I suppress a grin. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Want to come up to my room?” Z asks me.
Sam seems surprised at this for a moment, but then grins. “Oh, well, if we’re showing off our rooms now…” She grins at Z, who scowls at her. She turns to go back to the party after congratulating me again.
I follow Z up the stairs. It’s so quiet here, though my ears are still ringing with all the noise from the competition. He leads me to a room down a long hallway of doors. The room is more like a suite, with tall columns, a TV that covers most of a wall, and a plush leather sofa. There’s even a small kitchen, with refrigerator and microwave. I’m not sure how much I like that Z is into the flashier things. Reminds me of a pimp or something, which is weird because I don’t get that vibe from him. He opens up a small fridge and tosses me a can of soda.
“What do you think?” he asks, eyeing me closely.
“It’s big.”
“Yes, it is. Do you like it?”
“Well, it’s…it’s not my s
tyle, really. This is where you actually sleep?”
He laughs out loud, the first real non-sarcastic laugh I think I’ve heard from him. “No, I don’t. Come on.”
He escorts me out of the suite and across the hall to a very modest-sized room, about a quarter of the size of the monstrosity across the hall. I can tell it’s his room by the trace scent of his cologne, which never fails to set my heart racing. There’s a simple twin bed, a shelf overflowing with books, a laptop, a small fridge, and an electric guitar plugged into an amp.
“You play?”
He shrugs. “Occasionally, and not very well. Nancy went through a music phase a few years ago and made us all take lessons. She thought it’d help us deal with life better.”
“Did it help?”
“For some, maybe. You like this room more?”
“Yeah.” I look at the titles on the bookshelf. There’s a mix of new fiction and classic literature. “You have real books.”
“Yeah, what’d you expect? Computer manuals?”
I don’t say it but yes, that’s exactly what I expected.
He laughs and presses a button on his cell phone, hooking it up to small speakers on his desk. A gentle guitar riff fills the room. I recognize the song—“Whiskey Dream Kathleen.”
“You like the Spill Canvas?” I ask nervously. “Kind of a romantic song for a guy.”
“I like some of the ballads, yeah. I’m surprised you know them, though.”
“Don’t be,” I snap at him. “I’m not that clueless.”
“I didn’t say you were.” He disappears into an adjoining bathroom.
Damn, he’s infuriating.
He returns, changed from his school clothes into a pair of faded jeans and black T-shirt. He’s still wearing his glasses, but his sandy hair has fallen forward over his brow.
And hot. Crap.
He sits on his bed and pats the space next to him. I sit down on the edge, more than a little anxious about his intentions, but he leans back, hands threaded behind his head. The music builds to a crescendo, and I imagine Z following along on his guitar. The thought sends an electric charge over my skin.
“So you bring girls here a lot?” I ask, shifting under his gaze.
“No, you’re the first I’ve invited to my room.”
“And the other room?”
“More.”
I look down at my hands and pick at my cuticles. I’m dying to ask him how many is more, and what does that mean, though I wonder if I really want to know.
“You’re uncomfortable,” he says. “Why is that?”
“I’m not sure if I trust you.”
“That’s probably smart. What else?”
My cheeks warm. “Well, it kind of feels like you’re hitting on me.” I can’t believe I said that. I try to recover. “Not that you are or anything, it just—”
“I’m not arguing with you.” He sits up to move closer to me, and my heart does a little happy dance that I hope doesn’t show on my face.
I clear my throat. “So that’s how you make your money, huh?”
“How’s that?” He tilts his head like he’s really interested in what I’m going to say. I open my mouth to state the obvious, “hacking competitions,” but then close it without saying anything when I see the slight smirk on his face. Like there’s something else.
Something other than competitions.
I try to meet his gaze without flinching. “You do a lot of these, um, competitions, and…” I can’t bring myself to say anything other than that, though. To say anything else would mean he’s a criminal.
“I’d say you’re almost right.”
“Almost?”
“Almost.” He curls his hand around mine and leans closer. His lips are so close to mine, we might breathe the same air.
A knock at the door makes me jump. “Yeah?” he says, without looking away from me.
Sam opens the door and peers in, looking from me to Z with a raised eyebrow. Her expression isn’t happy, but it doesn’t seem like a jealous thing, either. I know I should be more concerned with whatever’s got her worried, but my thought at the moment is that I wish she had waited a couple minutes before knocking.
She steps in and closes the door behind her. “We have company.”
Chapter Eleven
“Bless the bright eyes of your sex! They never see, whether for good or bad, more than one side of any question; and that is always, the one which first presents itself to them.”
—Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist
Liv
Sam directs an intense look at Z, slowly enunciating her last word as if to say, I don’t want Liv to understand what I mean. His expression doesn’t change, but his hand tightens around mine, squeezing so hard I have to pull away before it goes numb.
“He’ll want to see you,” she says when he doesn’t respond.
“Shut up, I’m trying to think.” He jumps to his feet to pace around for a minute, then stops to face Sam. “Stay here with Liv,” he tells her. “Don’t come downstairs until he’s gone.”
“What…” I begin, but he’s already out the door.
He turns back at the stairs and holds up one hand when he sees me following, mouthing, “Stay here.”
“What’s going on?” I ask Sam, trying to peer over the railing as Z reaches the first floor. She puts a finger to her lips as she pulls me out of view. It’s not long before the conversation from below rises to my ears.
“Z,” a man’s deep, gravelly voice says.
“Bill.” Z’s voice is quiet, barely audible. I yank my arm away from Sam and move toward the stairs, trying to stay in the shadow of a potted tree.
A tall, black-haired man in a dark business suit stands in the foyer. His back is toward me so I can’t see his face, but I do see Z and the others. Judging by their expressions, no one’s thrilled about this visit. Nancy is standing next to the guy, twisting her hands together, her eyes moving back and forth from him to Z.
“How far along are you?” the guy asks Z.
“Getting there.” Z’s tone is curt. I lean closer, jostling the tree and almost knocking it over. Z doesn’t even flinch at the movement, though I’m sure he knows I’m there.
“Well,” Bill says, “you better finish soon. I need you on this case and I don’t like to wait.”
“I know.”
The front door opens and a young woman walks in. She’s pretty, with dark curls spiraling around her face and long slender legs extending beneath a short pink skirt.
“Maggie?” Z says, almost choking on the word. His eyes seem fixed on her. Uh-oh. I take a second look at her. From what I can see, she seems maybe a couple years older than me. Ex-girlfriend? She’s got to be.
She twists her hands together and mutters something I can’t hear.
“I told you to wait in the car,” Bill says without turning.
“I wanted to see them,” she says, a catch in her voice. I feel someone nudge close to me and catch Sam peering over my shoulder, her eyebrows pinched together. Bill walks to Z and grabs his arm, yanking him closer and saying something in his ear. Z shakes his head, his face tight. Bill releases him and turns to Maggie, nodding curtly to the door. They leave, and the entire room seems to exhale.
“Who the hell was that?” I ask Sam.
“Bill Sykes,” she says. “And don’t ask anything else. I don’t know.”
She pushes past me down the stairs and takes Z’s elbow, pulling him aside. Nancy approaches me. “Everything okay?” She’s as kind as before, though it seems a little forced. Her eyes are focused on Sam’s and Z’s backs as they talk.
“Yeah, thanks. I think Z’s taking me home.” I want to ask her what the hell just happened, but she’s not the one who owes me an explanation.
“Ah, well, if you ever need anything, as a friend of Z’s, you should feel free to come to us. We’re here for you.” Her cheerful tone is so strange after such an intense moment.
Z gestures to the door and I foll
ow him out. He exhales heavily, rubbing at the arm where Bill grabbed him. “Crazy, huh?” His attempt at a smile doesn’t erase the tension in his eyes.
“Yeah. What was that about?” I ask.
“Just some weirdness. It wouldn’t make that much sense to you, anyway. Bill owns the house, but Nancy runs it, so we don’t see him that often. He’s kind of intense about things, so we humor him.”
Humor? “Who was the girl? Maggie.”
His hesitation before he responds with “Just a girl” is probably no longer than a millisecond, but in that instant the twinge of his eyebrows makes me realize there’s more to Z and Maggie than he’ll want to tell me. He moves quickly to the bike and tosses me the helmet.
“Wait, I haven’t finished.”
“Later, okay?” he says. “I’ve got things I need to do.” The bike roars to life and he looks at me expectantly.
I jam the helmet on my head a little too hard and climb behind him. As we pull away from the house, I’m pretty sure he’s hoping I’ll drop the subject.
Think again.
…
Z
After dropping Liv off, I head to the house on Lindler Drive, my nerves on edge. Maggie should be back by now. Access to the grounds is restricted, of course; it’s the house Bill keeps most secret to avoid getting busted. I don’t know much about this side of his business, but as close as it is to Washington, DC, and plenty of lonely politicians with deep pockets, I figure it’s pretty busy. I bypass the security gate and turn the bike down the next road to ride alongside the house. I can see the black roof through the trees. Moving along a gray stone perimeter wall, I find an area where there is a thick growth of oaks, with branches low enough to use as a ladder. I maneuver along the branches and cross over the wall.
The dense thicket spreads all the way up to the house. I move out of the moonlight to the shadows, pressing my back against a tree trunk as a man gets into a sedan and drives away. I wait a few minutes, then text Maggie: Outside.