My mind returns to that warehouse. I nab my laptop, which is next to me on the mattress, and boot it up. Google is my friend, and I start to navigate its murky waters of information.
It takes me about an hour of deep diving and testing hunches before I’m able to find out who probably owns the building. It’s buried under three layers of corporate ownership, but I eventually come up with the name Joslyn Meyers.
Of course, everyone who’s anyone knows who she is. She’s an incredibly talented actress and singer who boasts multiple awards. I suppose there could be an argument that the warehouse is actually a secret recording studio or something, but I immediately dismiss the idea. No way it would be protected with security that involves a retinal scan. Music isn’t that valuable.
I dive back into Google to read more news articles. A few more queries reveal Joslyn Meyers is now married to a man named Kynan McGrath, and there’s a wealth of information about him. British, former Royal Marine, and current owner of Jameson Force Security—a huge private contract security company. Looks like it originated in Vegas, and it’s now headquartered in Pittsburgh. The website is sleek, but it’s too vague to give me the answers I need. Some well-worded crap about high-end security services, but the lack of true information makes me believe what they do is very much under the radar. Most likely contract work doing stuff for our government that it just can’t do because of political constraint.
Regardless, this makes a bit more sense. Presumably, Bebe now hacks for the good guys. At least that’s my guess given her skill level. Let’s face it, she’s no dummy if she was able to hack American nuclear codes.
That means she’s probably more protected than I originally thought. I get why she’s wary, too.
I’m relieved Anatoly gave me two weeks. This isn’t something I can rush into.
I put the laptop aside, then lace my hands together behind my head. Staring at the ceiling, I consider the few places Bebe visited over the past few days—to and from work, to the grocery store, and to her son’s school to pick him up. Each day after school, she takes him to the park to toss a football. It’s sweet to watch them together. The kid is clearly her world now.
As far as I can tell, it’s my only entry point to get closer to her.
The kid, I mean.
I decide to hit up the park tomorrow afternoon to figure out how close I can get to them.CHAPTER 2Bebe“Aaron,” I call from the kitchen, but I angle my voice toward the entryway into the hall which will hopefully carry up the stairs. “Let’s go. We’re going to be late for school.”
“You need to install an intercom system,” my mom suggests from where she sits at the kitchen table with a cup of tea.
“I’m not paying money to have an intercom system installed,” I grumble. “Not when I have a perfectly good set of vocal cords.”
“He plays music in his room.” Picking up her cup, she looks at me over the rim, as if that makes what she says more authoritative. “He can’t hear you.”
“Aaron,” I yell louder. My mom winces. Shrugging, I shove the turkey sandwich I’d made for my son into a plastic baggie and toss it in his lunch box. At the ripe old age of ten, he insisted he could no longer carry a superhero lunch box to school and requested a plain black insulated bag from LL Bean. My child is growing up. I missed way too much of his childhood, having spent the superhero years in prison.
Turning to the fridge to grab an apple to throw in, I ask my mom, “And you’re sure you don’t need me to take you to the doctor?”
“I’m totally fine,” she replies with a dismissive wave before taking a delicate sip of tea. “Besides… it’s just a routine visit.”
It might just be a regular doctor’s appointment, but I’ve missed a lot of years with my mom, too. While I was serving my sentence in a high-security prison in Fort Worth, Texas, my mom struggled to raise Aaron for me while battling diabetes in its worse form. She couldn’t work and it took her years to qualify for social security, during which she and Aaron both suffered from not having enough money to do much more than subsist.
“Okay,” I say, but then I give her my own pointed look. “If you change your mind, you just need to call me. I’ll need about forty-five minutes lead time, but I can get back to take you.”
“Stop fussing,” she says with a stern expression, but there’s a great deal of affection in her voice. She understands I need to do this for a while. I feel like I have so much to compensate for, even though my mother has never once blamed me for the mess I landed myself in or for the disadvantage it cast upon my son.