I Don't Forgive You

by Aggie Blum Thompson

  She doesn’t respond.

  “Krystle? You there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. I’m just not sure that’s a great idea.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?” I get out of the car and lock it, keeping my phone to my ear. I look around, making a mental note of where I’ve parked.

  “Meaning, no offense, but this all sounds really crazy. You’re a suspect in a murder investigation? Someone leaked photos and got you fired, and now a car is following you. So you’ve hired your freak neighbor to hack into your computer?”

  “He’s not a freak. Well, not more than any other teenager is,” I say as I head down the stairs. “He’s the first person who might really be able to help me.”

  I get a bitter laugh in response. “Did it ever occur to you that this kid might be who’s behind all this online harassment? And now you’re paying him money to quote-unquote fix it?”

  With my shoulder, I push open the garage’s exit door and find myself on an unfamiliar street. It takes me a moment to orient myself. I’ve never been to this part of downtown Bethesda. Then I spot the Starbucks on the ground floor of a soulless office building on the corner.

  “I mean, it sounds like a pretty good scam to me,” Krystle says. “Harass the new neighbor and then offer to fix it—for a few thousand dollars, of course.”

  “That’s not what’s happening.” I walk as fast as I can without breaking into a jog. I’m five minutes late, and I have no idea if Dustin will wait around for me or if he has to get back to class.

  “I mean, this stuff all started when you moved in across the street from him, right? And wasn’t it his mom who took you to the pool that day someone took your picture in that bikini? Was this Dustin kid there?”

  I pause. I don’t know if he was there. I hadn’t thought about it. I brush the question away. It’s a distraction. “Forget Dustin. Dustin isn’t following me in an Audi. Have you heard anything else I said?”

  Inside Starbucks, I scan the room for Dustin in his familiar hoodie. Bethesda High School is a few blocks away and, judging from the number of teenagers sipping from white paper cups, this is a popular hangout. But no Dustin. I get in line for an espresso. I need it. It’ll be my third dose of the day. The other two didn’t even put a dent in my grogginess.

  “Allie, have you considered that maybe, just maybe, it’s not the worst idea to go check out this Bridgeways place? Not because this stuff is all your fault but because you seem really stressed.”

  “Whose side are you on?” I snap and then offer a smile to the confused-looking barista, a young pockmarked guy with a gray beanie pulled low over his forehead. “Espresso. Actually, double espresso, please.”

  I step aside to wait for my coffee.

  “I am on your side,” Krystle says. “I want to help you. But is now the time to run off and play Nancy Drew? Listen, do you want me to take over Sharon’s affairs? I’d be happy to become power of attorney if that would help.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek, thinking of what Mark said about Krystle being the one who took out the reverse mortgage. It’s true that her requests for emergency cash infusions have morphed over the years from midnight runs to Western Union to curt texts asking for me to Venmo her. But I know my sister. She’s not a great money manager, and maybe she doesn’t exactly have her shit together yet, but she wouldn’t do this to me. She wouldn’t put me through this. “If you want to help me, you can look into what’s going on with the house in Westport.”

  “Already on it. In fact, I spoke to a detective in Westport this morning about the reverse mortgage.”

  “You did?” A barista calls my name. I grab my small cup and head toward two unoccupied chairs.

  “Don’t sound so surprised. I’m not an idiot, Allie.” Her tone is terse. I’ve offended her. But I have to admit that I am surprised.

  “I know you’re not an idiot. I think that’s awesome that you’re doing this.”

  “You think this is all my fault,” Krystle says.

  “No, I don’t.” I hope the brusqueness in my voice cuts this short. I can’t get into this again. Yes, if she had been more alert, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. But it’s just as much my fault for expecting her to be on top of it. “So this detective, what did he say?”

  “He said this kind of fraud is very common. They get your social security number and date of birth, and that’s all they need. They said this kind of thing happens to people in nursing homes all the time. They get scammed like this.”

  “What’s the next step?”

  I see the familiar, stooped figure enter. Dustin pulls off his hoodie and looks around the room until his eyes lock with mine.

  “They open an investigation,” Krystle says. “He asked me for a bunch of information—”

  “Look, I’ve got to go, Krystle. Dustin’s here. Just give the police whatever they need and keep me posted.”

  Dustin lurches toward me, his backpack slung over one shoulder. I clear my stuff off the beat-up, upholstered chair next to me that I’ve been saving for him.

  “Well, call me later,” Krystle says. “And be careful. I don’t trust this freak.”

  42

  “Rule number one is you can’t tell my mom.” Dustin pulls a laptop covered in stickers from his bag.

  “And why not?” I wasn’t planning on mentioning our meeting to Leah, but I want to hear his reasoning.

  “She wouldn’t understand.” Up close, I can see that his ever-present black hoodie is filthy, with dark grease stains on the sleeves. A smattering of white dots, like a dusting of snow, lies across his shoulders. Dandruff, maybe. For a split second, I wonder if Krystle’s right, if maybe this isn’t such a good idea. Dustin grunts. “She thinks I spend too much time on computers as it is. She wants me to have hobbies. Like sports.”

  He spits out that last word with the same scorn as if Leah had nagged him to take up belly dancing.

  “Dustin, I’m not going to lie to your mother. We’re friends.”

  “I didn’t say you should lie.” He crosses and uncrosses his long, spidery legs. “But you don’t have to, like, tell her, if she doesn’t ask, right?”

  “I guess not.”

  “How about this. You tell me what’s happened, and then I tell you what I can do, and then you can decide if you want to hire me.”

  I sigh, not sure where to start. I feel as if I have run down this list so many times in the past few days—to friends, Krystle, the police—and no one has been able to help. But I do it again, making sure to hit the details I think Dustin’s savviness can be applied to. As I recount all this, I watch Dustin’s face for signs that he finds all this far-fetched—a roll of the eyes, a smirk. But besides the occasional twitch of his beak-like nose, he stares straight at me.

  “It sounds crazy, I know.” I break off a bit of the dry blueberry scone I have no interest in eating and pop it in my mouth. Too much caffeine on an empty stomach can do a number on my guts.

  “Nah, doesn’t sound crazy to me. Sounds pretty straightforward. Someone wants to fuck with you, but they want to do it from the safety of their computer.”

  I am flooded with gratitude that he believes me.

  “So do you think you can help me track down who is doing this?”

  “Oh yeah, no prob.” He opens his battered laptop. “We know that it’s someone in the neighborhood, someone who belongs to the pool, or at least was at the pool that day.”

  I think of what Krystle said, how Dustin might be the one behind all this. “Were you at the pool that day? I mean, maybe you saw something.”

  He shudders. “I hate the pool. Hate everything about it, the sun, the noise. My mom used to force me to be on the swim team when I was a kid.”

  “You know Heather? Lives across the street from you? She took a photo that day that looks just like the one in the fake profiles.” I explain in detail what I mean about the angle.

  “Hmm.” He types something into his laptop. “That could be a clue. I can look at
her photos.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Sure, if she stores them in the cloud or on Shutterfly.”

  I am struck by the realization of what I am asking Dustin to do. Hack into other people’s computers.

  “Look, if someone’s been attacking you online, there will be evidence.” He’s revved up like an engine that’s been gunned. “I mean, how did they get into your computer to access your work photos, for example?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I know you don’t.” Dustin rubs his knuckles together feverishly, his high-pitched words running together. “But I do. I mean, I will if I look at your devices. I’ll be able to tell you if they have physical access—like, are they in your house, using your computer—or if they’ve installed a program that’s being activated remotely.”

  Dustin’s agitated state unnerves me, making it hard to focus on what he’s saying.

  “So we’re looking for someone who has a fair amount of experience with computers?”

  “Not necessarily. They could just have money and have hired someone to do their dirty work.”

  “That’s a thing?”

  He guffaws as if he can’t believe my stupidity. “I can name like half a dozen dudes who could do this stuff in their sleep.” He grins, showcasing two rows of small, square teeth that remind me of corn kernels. “It’s what I plan to do when I graduate. I’m gonna skip college—don’t tell my mom—and be a paid hacker.” He waves an arm toward the other customers in Starbucks. “There’s probably at least one, maybe even two or three, guys in this room right now. Starbucks is a perfect phishing pond.”

  I look around at all the people. Whether young, old, or middle-aged, almost all are bent over some kind of device, whether it’s a phone, an iPad, or a laptop.

  “A phishing pond?”

  “Let’s say your nemesis wants to fuck you over. Let’s say they hired me. I would follow you to a place where there’s public Wi-Fi—like Starbucks or the library or the pool—and bring my own portable network.”

  I smile as if I am able to follow him. “All right. Those are all places where I’ve used the Wi-Fi, but I only sign on to the public Wi-Fi when I’m at Starbucks or wherever.”

  He snorts. “That’s what you think. Let’s say I camp out here with my laptop and my own open Wi-Fi network, which I rename ‘Starbucks Wi-Fi,’ or if I’m at the pool, I call it ‘Bethesda Pool Wi-Fi.’ A certain number of customers are going to think they’re connecting to the real Starbucks or pool network; but in fact, it’s a trap.”

  “Okay. Then what happens?”

  “Well, since I control the router, and my router can store data, anything you access while you’re connected to my Wi-Fi network can be captured,” he says, his knuckles twitching at warp speed. I can see red blisters along the sides of his fingers from all that rubbing. “Info like credit card numbers, usernames, and passwords—and not just for email accounts but for bank accounts, social media. Anything.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “Of course you didn’t. Most people are complete idiots about online security.”

  I open my mouth to object, but he continues. “And that’s not the biggest danger. The biggest danger is that someone installs either malware or spyware on your device.”

  I remove my laptop from my bag and put it on the low table in front of us. I may have been carrying around the instrument of my own torture. “Would you be able to figure that out by looking at my computer?”

  Dustin nods.

  “How long will you need it?”

  He rolls his eyes in irritation. “A few hours? A few days? I don’t know what I’m going to find. But I’ll need your phone, too.”

  The request sends a shot of panic through me. Giving up my laptop is one thing, but my life is on my phone. I turn the small device over in my hand. “Is that really necessary? All my contacts, my calendar, everything is on here.” I wonder how anyone will reach me in an emergency. What if something happens to Cole?

  “You don’t have another phone you can use?”

  “No.”

  “You know you can buy a pay-as-you-go phone. Then have your calls forwarded to that phone.”

  “You mean like a burner phone?”

  “Yeah. You can get them at any convenience store.”

  I think about it for a moment, but the thought of being separated from my phone fills me with dread.

  “I’m not ready.” I shake my head. “I can’t just give up my phone. Can we start with my computer and see what’s there? That’s where my work photos were stored. If you find something, then we’ll go through my phone.”

  He snorts. “Suit yourself. But if I were you, I wouldn’t use that phone for anything sensitive for now. I’ll ping you later after I look at your laptop.”

  “And if I need to reach you?”

  “Text me, or if you have documents to show me, email me at dude@theabyss.com.”

  “Abyss.com?”

  He titters. “It’s just me and a few friends. We have our own server, so you don’t need to worry about confidentiality. I’m not going to say it’s unhackable, but let’s just say security is tight.”

  “How much do you want for this?”

  “It’ll be five hundred up front, and then another hundred dollars an hour. If I’m going to work more than five hours on this, I’ll contact you and let you decide if you want to keep going.”

  I knew Dustin’s services were going to cost me, but I am galled by his rates. I charge half of that for my photography work, and I turn over a portion of that to Mike Chau. Or I did. Back when I had a job. “Fine. Do you want me to Venmo you?”

  He scoffs. “Did you hear what I said? Don’t do any financial transactions via the internet.”

  “Well, I don’t have a checkbook with me.”

  “That’s cool because I wouldn’t take a check. Cash only.”

  He stands up and downs the rest of his drink, then tosses the empty cup on the table. I grab all the garbage, including his cup, and toss it on the way out.

  We leave together and head to a bank around the corner. The air is crisp, proper autumn weather, and the tall office buildings create a wind tunnel that we have to lean into while we walk. We’re just far enough apart from each other that no one would suspect we are together. I’m not sure if he’s trying to maintain some kind of discretion or if it’s just a teenager’s natural reluctance to be seen with an adult.

  Dustin waits behind a brick column while I withdraw the five hundred, the maximum the ATM will allow me. I wonder if he knew that.

  “Here you go.” I hand him the wad of cash. He turns to go, but I call him back. “One other thing. I think that someone’s been following me. I have a license plate number, and I want to find the person it belongs to. The police won’t help me—”

  A sharp laugh like a kitten’s yelp escapes his throat. “I told you so.”

  I jot down the info on a scrap of paper, which he plucks from my fingertips.

  “So you think you can find something out?”

  “Of course I can. Bring me more stuff like this—licenses, credit card numbers, cell phone numbers, email addresses—and I’ll have this figured out in no time. People think they’re anonymous, but there’s no such thing as privacy anymore. Whether you’re on the web or running around town, you are constantly being tracked, watched, and monitored.”

  He pulls his black hood over his head and walks off.

  The wind has picked up, and a few errant drops of rain start to fall. The forecast is for rain tonight and a windstorm tomorrow. I pull the collar of my coat tight.

  My car is on the second floor of the public parking garage. I take the stairs two at a time, holding my breath to keep out the stench of piss. As I round the second landing, the thud of footsteps below echoes up through the stairwell. I pick up the pace.

  My body relaxes once I’m out of the stairwell and on the second floor of the parking garage—that is, until I realize I’ve made an err
or. I’ve entered through the wrong staircase and will have to traverse the entire length of the dim garage to get to my car. I’ve just begun walking when I hear the click of the stairway door behind me. I glance over my shoulder. It’s a man in a black puffy jacket, head down. He’s walking right toward me.

  My steps quicken. Not quite running, but I’m walking as fast as I can.

  The garage is filled with cars. I’m safe, I tell myself. Completely normal for other people to be here. It’s the middle of the day.

  I take a peek over my shoulder. He’s right there, just behind me. I pull my bag to my chest. I can see my car. It’s so close. If I can just get inside and lock the doors, I’ll be fine.

  A dip in the pavement causes my ankle to twist and give out. I stumble and fall to my knees. The palms of my hands make contact with something wet and greasy. The man leans down and grabs my arm, lifting me up with the same ease with which I lift Cole. I feel helpless. My legs are like jelly as I force myself upright.

  I push him back and open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out, just a gasping for air.

  He pulls his hood back, revealing a young, dark-skinned face. He holds his hands up, wide-eyed. “I’m not going to hurt you, lady.” Hurt interlaced with anger fills his voice.

  I try to smile, but my whole body shakes. The young man walks to a Honda minivan parked across from me. I limp to my car, the pain from my ankle radiating up my leg, my face burning with shame.

  I can’t go on like this. If Dustin doesn’t come through for me, I have no idea what I will do.

  43

  “Where were you?” Cole says as soon as I walk in the door at home. “We have to go. We can’t be late.”

  “Oh, shit,” I say when I see the kitchen. I completely forgot about International Night.

  “Mommy! You said the s-word.”

  The island is covered in trays filled with squares of shortbread. Each one boasts a toothpick hoisting a little blue rectangle with a white X on it. I am not up for this. Not with everything that’s going on.

  “That’s Scotland’s flag,” Susan says, her voice brimming with pride.