“You guys haven’t gotten around to telling each other your real names? You suck at online dating.”
“I’m not online dating. We met playing a game. Everyone uses handles. Using your real name is dangerous, especially around groups of people with nothing but time and top-notch computer skills.”
“You’re the best hacker ever. You have nothing to worry about.”
“I’m not a hacker and I’m not even close to the best.”
I don’t mention that Wasp’s systems are locked down tighter than an all-girls’ school after lights out.
“Digital data researcher, sorry.”
“That’s not right,” I mutter, my fingers punching in a code to bypass another site’s firewall.
“Everything about this is right! I’ve seen what you can do. Hit that man’s backdoor and do a little snooping.”
I smile at her words because they do have a disgusting sexual innuendo to them and because my maturity often leans more toward pubescent boy than grown woman.
“I’m not going to invade his privacy.”
“Why? If he’s as interested in you as you claim, he’s probably already been through your backdoor.”
I chuckle. “Please stop saying backdoor.”
“Still,” she argues.
“There’s no way for him to get through my firewalls. Plus, I’d know it if he did. They’re impenetrable.”
“Nothing is impenetrable,” she disagrees.
I mean, unless he’s the real W45PN357, he wouldn’t have a chance, and I don’t imagine the real hacker would spend his time playing games online—not with pandemics, pizzagate, Benghazi, and a million other things going on that he’d probably feel obligated to research.
“You already know my opinion.” She sighs. “I don’t know why you don’t just agree to go out with him.”
“Maybe I don’t want to be murdered?”
She scoffs. “Does he seem like a murderer?”
“Ted Bundy was very charming.”
If she were in front of me, she’d be rolling her eyes. I don’t doubt she’s already doing it all the way from California right now.
“Go during the daytime, in public. Tell a local friend where you’re going. Hell, have them follow you to make sure you’re safe. He asked to meet for coffee, not at some sleezy hotel off the highway with a no vacancy sign.”
There is so much to unpack from her statement. I won’t admit that I don’t have local friends because saying it would make me feel even more like a loser.
“Why does your mind always go to sleezy hotels?” I ask after realizing she’s made the reference more than half a dozen times since I’ve known her.
“My traumatic childhood isn’t up for discussion,” she responds in a chipper tone, but I can still hear some of the pain she tries her best to hide.
That’s a conversation for another day, I guess.
“I’ll come to Missouri and do it myself if I have to!”
I laugh at her ridiculousness.
“I’ll change the sheets on the guest bed.”
“Perfect. So, what else has been going—”
“Fuck,” I hiss. “Sarah, I have to call you back.”
“Are you ditching me to play online games?”
“No, it’s work. Talk soon.”
I hang up before she can respond. Actually, I’ve been ignoring Wasp’s messages on TalkToMe and the ping I get occasionally from the Orc’s Realm game I have running in the background because the assignment I’ve been working on has become more difficult than I ever anticipated.
Mr. Jones paid very well for this research—the stuff he all but said is an investigation on a high-stakes player in the organization—but it isn’t exactly leading me to where he was thinking it would.
I’m finding suspicious activity, but it isn’t related to the Bureau. The things that are popping up are more personal in nature, as in what I’m staring at right now confirms that William Theold isn’t screwing over the FBI, he’s screwing over his wife.
Big time.
So hard.
I take another look at his travel schedule, the one that was easily grabbed from the records in an FBI database. He splits his time between Boston and San Diego—offices literally the entire length of the country apart.
He keeps a home at both locations because of the extensive traveling. His wife and two sons live with him in San Diego. His mistress and son live at his home in Boston.
This man is literally living two separate lives.
“What a piece of shi—no! Fourteen years?”
I dig deeper, the Jerry Springer episode playing out before my eyes as more information flashes across my screen. I’m mining it in quick succession, so I’ll have to dig into the details later. It’s never safe to stay in one spot electronically very long. It increases the chance of leaving a footprint behind.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
He has two fucking sons with the same damn name. Does that make it easier when he’s home lying to both women?
I wonder how old little William Theold, Jr.—either of them—will be when he Googles his own name online only to discover another kid that looks nearly identical to him because of course, good old Willie has a type. Seems thin, blonde, and oblivious is what appeals to this guy.