The hacker apparently had not.
My phone buzzed again, shaking in my pocket, and I looked down at another tweet.
A Farmers Daughter? #idontthinkso
And a link to: aintnosunshine.nyc
I clicked the button, an entire website up and running—my yearbook photo from high school, front and center, my real name, Sunshine Stephens, underneath. And all the details too:
“Sunshine Stephens grew up in Montauk, on prestigious Old Montauk Highway, in a cliffside mansion. No small farming town, no home on the range. Her father was a famed composer. She had quite a cushy childhood.”
The description was wrong. We’d had no money, it wasn’t a mansion, and my childhood was the opposite of cushy—but it didn’t matter. Everything I had sold on the air was a bill of goods, and everyone would know it now. It wasn’t just strangers who would feel betrayed hearing about who I used to be. It was friends and colleagues—everyone whom I’d never told who I really was. Since Sunshine Mackenzie’s inception, I’d kept my past from all of them. As for the people I’d grown up with, I had theories as to why they’d stayed quiet—theories about how my town stopped caring about you as soon as you walked out the door. Ryan dismissed that reasoning though, saying they’d stayed quiet for the reason everyone stayed quiet: People only spoke up about something if it benefited them. I palmed my phone angrily, not sure what to do. If I could find out who was doing this, maybe there was a play to be made. But how on earth was I going to do that?
It was as if the freak had heard me contemplating. My phone buzzed, and I looked down at the alert, a text from a blocked number.
Tough Night? #aintnosunshine
I wrote back quickly. Who are you?
I could ask you the same thing.
Pls. What do you want?
The little ellipsis started going like crazy. What do you think I want?
I was shaking, completely furious. Whoever this was, he was enjoying it. Enjoying the discomfort I was in. He was punishing me in every way he could think of.
Are you after money here?
Wrong question.
The little ellipsis started going again. Then, suddenly, it stopped. And started again.
How much money?
I thought of what Danny and I had in savings. After the apartment renovation and the money he’d put into his business, it wasn’t a lot.
Forget it. Bye 4 now.
I looked down at the phone, horrified that this horrible person had ruined my birthday, my marriage, my career. He wanted to play games? I could play games too.
A little game of telephone, specifically. In which I palmed my phone and hurled it right over the railing and into the Hudson River.
7
When I got back to the loft, I heard someone rummaging around in the kitchen. And for a second, I thought Danny was there. I didn’t think he’d forgiven me, but I thought maybe he had forgotten something—that he’d come home to get clothes for the night. That I’d have another chance to win him over. To get him to lie down and talk it through. To get him, for the night, to stay.
“Sunny?” I heard from the kitchen.
It was Ryan.
He walked into the living room, a bottle of scotch in his hand. “Where have you been?” he said.
“Nowhere. Why are you here?”
“It’s nice to see you too,” he said.
I was gutted and all I wanted to do was get into bed. Wake up, like in Groundhog Day, get to start this birthday again. But there was Ryan, a terrible reminder that that wasn’t happening.