“It’s been a busy couple of days.”
Luke nods, but he’s clearly disappointed in her answer.
“My turn,” she says.
“Yeah, OK. I guess we can pretend that was quid pro quo.”
“You said if there was anything you can do to help, to let you know. How serious were you?”
“Serious, but—”
“When was the last time you heard from your brother?” she asks.
Luke takes a careful sip of beer, staring at her while he does so.
“Why?” he asks once he swallows.
“Because I need his help.”
The struggle inside him is almost painful to see: the war between his desire to make good on his word to her and his desire to guard his family’s secret.
“I need to find someone. And if your brother can hack a satellite, he can find anyone, right?”
Luke’s mouth opens to protest.
Just then the alarm panel next to the front door releases a shrill series of beeps. It doesn’t sound like any alarm or warning she’s ever heard; it’s almost musical. A two-tone pattern that repeats again and again, more mischievous than threatening.
Luke dives into the kitchen and returns with his gun drawn. That’s when she sees the computer monitor in the front room flashing black and white in a rhythm that matches the alarm’s maddening song.
Luke advances on the panel, gun drawn, then lowers it when he reads whatever’s on the display. A second version of the chirping tune starts up somewhere close by, accompanied by the familiar sound of a cell phone vibrating against a wooden table. In any other circumstance, it would be intolerably rude of her to pick up Luke’s phone and read the display, but this is a special circumstance for sure.
The words she sees flashing across the screen are the same that are now flashing across the monitor. And when she joins Luke in the foyer, she sees the same words scrolling across the alarm panel’s display.
YES I CAN YES I CAN YES I CAN YES I CAN
YES I CAN YES I CAN.
22
Luke’s musical tastes don’t get any harder than classic rock, so he’s not surprised the alarm’s shrill song makes him want to cover his ears with both hands. But damn if he’s actually going to do that in front of Charley. He couldn’t if he wanted to because he’s still got his gun in hand.
“What the fu—hell?” he cries.
“I’m a grown-up,” Charley says. “You can curse.”
She turns from the alarm panel and advances on his computer; he follows.
“Last time you saw your brother, did you go to the bathroom at all?” Charley cries over the racket.
“My brother and I don’t go to the bathroom together!”
“That’s not what I’m asking,” she shouts.
“I can’t think with this damn noise!”
“Stop it, Bailey!” she shouts.
And just like that, the music stops.
The message on the computer screen freezes, the words blaring YES I CAN.
A glance over his shoulder confirms the burglar alarm’s display panel holds the same freeze-frame.
Luke places the gun on its side next to the keyboard, muzzle pointed at the wall. He’s not sure what’s startled him more—the fact that the crazy music just stopped, or that Charley was so confident his brother was the composer.
“Your phone,” Charley says, but she’s scanning their surroundings now.
“What about it?”
“Did you leave it alone with your brother the last time you saw him?”
“I don’t . . . maybe. I don’t know.”
“He probably put some kind of malware on it so he could spy on you. Then he used it to hack your Wi-Fi here at the house.”
In response, three quick beeps come from the alarm system. The message on the computer screen is quickly replaced with one that says, BINGO!
“You know about this stuff?” he asks.
“I’m not an expert like your brother, but we used to get hacked a bunch when I lived with my dad. There were a lot of ass wipes on the Internet who thought I was lying about not killing anyone on the farm. I had to learn how to protect myself.”
He keeps his mouth shut. She probably doesn’t mean it as a dig, but he’s embarrassed nonetheless. How many times back in high school did he vaguely imply she might have been changed by her time with the Bannings? More than once, that’s for sure. And this is who that bullshit put him in league with. Hackers.
Focus, he tells himself. As if his brain wasn’t already overloaded from Trina’s—Charley, Charley, Charley, he corrects himself—visit, the knowledge that Bailey’s been watching his every move makes his pulse roar and his head spin, which seems to him like a good combination for a heart attack.
“Spy on me,” Luke whispers. “He was spying . . .” He turns to the computer and the tiny camera embedded in the top of the monitor. “You were spying on me?”
The message on-screen is replaced by a series of Zs emerging from the bottom of the screen, increasing in size as they drift upward—the universal sign for snoring.
“Obviously you all don’t have the same taste in TV shows,” Charley says.
“You couldn’t tell me you were alive, but you were spying on me the whole time? That’s awesome, dude. That’s just fucking awesome.”
“Luke . . .”
“What? You told me I could curse.”
“It’s the volume. Marty’s outside.”
Just then a crude outline of a clock appears on the screen. A red line slashes through it. All of this happens on a black background that seems to have wiped all personal touches from the computer monitor. Luke somehow finds that more unnerving than having his privacy invaded.
There should be relief in here somewhere. Relief that Bailey’s alive and safe. But where’s the apology? He’s not seeing the emoji for one slide across the screen, so he figures he’s got the right to be pissed. For now.
“No time,” Charlotte says. “He’s saying no time. No time for what?”
The clock with the red line through it is replaced by a cartoon of a woman with thick-framed cat-eye glasses and a bun on her head. She grows in size until she’s revealed to be pushing a rack full of books.
“Librarian?” Luke asks.
“He doesn’t want us to keep talking to him on your computer,” Charlotte says. “He wants us on a public server. Best place would be a library. Hence, the librarian.”
Three beeps from the alarm system again.
“Where’s the nearest library?” she asks.
“Paso Robles. I’m going to ask you again how you know so much about this stuff.”
“Change your identity and you learn a few things. Wait,” Charley says, with enough volume to suggest she’s talking to Bailey directly.
The screen goes black.
“My question,” she says, “the one about you being able to find anyone. Was that what you were answering?”
YES, comes the flashing response.
“OK,” Charley answers, “so you’re offering to help me?”
The word on-screen stays solid but a red stream moves through each individual letter, almost like neon coming to life.
“Why?” she asks. “We barely know each other.”
There’s a second or two of silence. Amid his anger, Luke feels a twinge of sadness over the thought that his sudden connection with Bailey might have just been severed.
As he’s about to call out to his brother, new words appear on the screen, letter by letter; the font is even typewriter-style.
Anyone who can make my brother apologize for something is fine by me.
Charley’s laughter dies when she sees Luke’s glare.
The message vanishes. It’s replaced by WWW.CHATEEUR.RO.
“Pen,” Charlotte says.
Luke reaches into the drawer and hands her one, along with a Post-it note, but no way is he writing down the URL himself. So what if his refusal to do so makes him feel like a stubborn eight-year-old. He’s got a right to be pissed, doesn’t he? And it’s got nothing to do with Agent Rohm or the FBI or anything Bailey might have done in the past. It’s the silence since. It’s the fact that Bailey never let him know he was OK.
The URL vanishes.
It’s replaced by the words: