CHAPTER 1
Lindy
No one knows me.
I have zero friends here.
I’ve only been living in New Orleans for a few weeks because I needed to make a clean and fast break from Seattle.
And during those few weeks, I’ve only kept to myself. Well, myself and my cats.
So I’m not sure why someone is ringing my doorbell.
The classic ding dong sound isn’t something I normally hear. For one, old-school doorbells are extremely annoying. So, I installed a full-range security system, but it thwarted me and still produced a doorbell sound that’s at least a prettier version of the same old chime. It’s a strange sound when it echoes through the decrepit, nearly empty house because no one ever rings it.
I drop my spoon into my bowl and scuttle through the house like a cockroach trying to get out of the way of a big shoe coming down to crush it. I feel a bit like a bug as I run over to the living room to check the security camera feed I have set up on a large monitor in the corner. It currently displays eight frames, each of them covering every angle of the house.
There’s a sweet-looking old granny standing on my porch. At three minutes past midnight. She’s got sleek white hair cut in a fashionable bob, and she’s wearing a hot pink pantsuit. She’s clearly got a rockin’ bod too. Christ. She’s probably seventy, but she looks as fit as a twenty-year-old. I have super high-definition cameras out there, so I see everything.
She leans forward toward the door again, but this time, she doesn’t ring the bell. Instead, she looks up at the out-of-reach camera in the corner of the house and grins her best charming grin. She bats her eyelashes, which are long and…Woah, is she really wearing fake eyelashes? And honest to god, why do they look so good on her when they look so awful on me? You know, in a past life. Because lately, it’s not like I’ve had a reason to don a pair of falsies and hit town.
That would kind of defeat the purpose of keeping a low profile.
Not that it has to be very low since no one is going to come for me and put me to the ground or anything. It’s just that I prefer to fly under the radar for as long as possible. I find it’s a lot harder to wear out a welcome that way.
The smarter parts of me almost overrule my curiosity. Almost.
I have to see why there’s an adorable, pantsuit-wearing, falsie-toting granny on my porch at midnight. This neighborhood, on a scale of one to terrible, falls somewhere close to terrible. The house then, on a scale of one to have seen better days, has most definitely seen better days. The undeniable security system, however, on a scale of one to paranoid, suggests that a very radical, dangerous person is hiding in here.
Yet, she’s just standing there, clutching a luxurious black and sparkly evening bag. Is that a strand of pearls at her throat? It’s definitely a strand of pearls. I can’t leave this poor, innocent, probably confused, and maybe even lost—possibly senile?—old lady out in the middle of the night in this neighborhood.
On a scale of one to a bad person, I’m probably a bad person. I know I’ve done some shady things—not things that hurt anyone physically—though maybe a few of those buttheads had it coming, so I’m not exactly innocent. That said, even I know I can’t just leave an old lady to fend for herself.
That’s why I find myself opening the door and cocking a brow. What do people say in the south? Oh, right. “Ma’am?”
The first words out of the old firecracker’s mouth set me on high alert. She’s sharp as a tack, definitely not confused, and not senile in the least. Her hands move to her hips, and she doesn’t need to lean forward and peer at me through the bifocals she isn’t wearing. “You are that lady hacker?”
“Uh…” I’m stunned. Silence means guilt, and I’m silent enough that understanding flashes in the old lady’s pale blue eyes. “How did you find me?”
I might as well admit it and take what’s coming. If someone from my past wanted to deal with me, and they sent an old lady assassin to bust my ass, then I guess I’m about to pay my dues. I don’t think it’s that serious, though. I pissed people off, but as far as I know, no one wants me dead.
“It’s not as though you have an ‘I am a Hacker’ sign on your door,” the old lady cackles. She sticks out a bony hand. “Helen Cromwell at your service, but—” she inserts a wink, “I’m really hoping you’ll be at mine.”
I glance behind her and see only the night. She has an expensive black car parked at the curb. There’s a shadow of a guy inside, probably a driver, but I don’t want to make assumptions. Maybe he’s the assassin, just waiting for her to breach the line and infiltrate the house.