It had a similar effect on him now, and, as he ran diagnostics and updated the machine’s drivers and operating system, something of the old Gibson Vaughn returned. His vision began to clear around the edges, and the asbestos haze clouding his thoughts slowly dissipated. He drove himself faster and faster, enjoying feeling sharp and reveling in the simple pleasure of work. Duke and Bear must have also recognized it because they made themselves scarce.
Thirty years ago, people could disappear into America and reinvent themselves. Now it took meticulous planning and a commitment never to reach out to your old life. For most, the lure of the Internet proved too great to resist—the urge to Google yourself, or search Facebook for the people you’d left behind. The simple truth was there was no such thing as starting a new life. The best you could manage was a convincing rebranding. A fresh coat of paint, but that was all. You might change your name. You might even change your face. But you couldn’t change the person underneath, and the person underneath would still have the same needs and wants, the same habits and tastes, the same strengths and weaknesses.
Once Gibson admitted that he could find no trace of Nicole or Ellie Vaughn, he fell back to what he knew about his ex-wife. Nicole Vaughn was an avid reader, and still would be no matter what name she had adopted. Over the past decade, Nicole had reviewed well over a thousand novels on Goodreads, a website for book lovers. She served as a reader for a host of novelists and received advance copies of new books. Her network of followers read her reviews and trusted her recommendations. Although he couldn’t find her original Goodreads profile, Gibson would bet good money that she’d only changed her user information rather than delete it entirely. The Nicole he knew would have had a very hard time leaving that investment behind.
Playing a hunch, he searched prolific book reviewers on the site looking for anything that sounded familiar. A profile belonging to a “Gwen Hodges” stuck out to him—similar genres and now with nearly two thousand reviews. She had been productive in his absence. But the reviews themselves were the kicker. Nicole had a distinctive writing style, and when they were married, she would read her reviews aloud to him before publishing them. He could hear her voice in Gwen Hodges’s writing now. He kept reading until he felt certain.
Next, Gibson searched the website of Manhattan public relations firms, which conveniently posted photographs of their agents. He settled on a young associate named Anne DeWitt. Anne had a kind, open face. His next step was to spoof an e-mail address that appeared to originate from her firm. Then “Anne” wrote an e-mail detailing her attempts to reach Nicole. Anne had a terrific thriller by a promising debut author and wanted to send Nicole an advance reader copy to review. Gibson wrote three drafts, tweaking the tone and wording, before emailing it to Nicole’s mother.
Phishing a sixty-year-old made Gibson feel more than a little dirty. Nicole’s parents were not very tech savvy and had joined the twenty-first century only under duress. He could think of dozens of ways to hack them, but a phishing attack felt the least invasive. He didn’t want to intrude upon her mother’s life more than necessary. They’d never warmed to Gibson, and somehow this tactic proved all the things that they’d always thought about him. Duke strolled past the kitchen and complimented his son for his chivalry.
“You’re so noble. It’s a goddamn inspiration in these dark times.”
Gibson had nothing to say to that. He felt guilty hacking Nicole, and he struggled to differentiate himself from a stalker. From any of the estranged ex-husbands on the news who forced their way back into lives better off without them. Bear had argued that this was different. That Nicole had run because of a misunderstanding—she thought Gibson had burned down the house. Once she knew that it was all a mistake, things would go back to normal. Bear sounded so compelling, and God knew, Gibson wanted to be convinced. He missed Ellie terribly.
His laptop announced an incoming e-mail. Nicole’s mother had taken the bait. To her credit, Elizabeth Anne didn’t cough up her daughter’s address to a stranger on the Internet. At least not without exchanging a few e-mails first.
They traded messages all afternoon. Nicole’s mother peppered “Anne” with questions. Gibson kept it light and upbeat, stalling at least thirty minutes between messages. Couldn’t come across as too eager, and when he felt it starting to drag out, he sent a brief reply and then ignored her next message entirely. Anne DeWitt was a busy woman and had better things to do than beg an amateur reviewer to read a book. Two hours passed. Gibson held his breath until an apologetic note arrived along with a PO box outside Seattle.
Bear did a happy dance around the kitchen.
The PO box was a smart move—one more firewall between Nicole and the outside world. But not from Gibson. A five-minute phone call to the store manager in Seattle netted the PO box owner’s name—Gwen Hodges. Humans were always the weakest link in any security. He hung up the phone and got back to work. An hour later when Toby got home, Gibson was staring at Gwen Hodge’s house on Google Street View, contemplating his next step.
Finding Nicole, he was beginning to realize, had been the easy part. Approaching her would be a whole other mess, and he didn’t really know where to begin. He wouldn’t be able to pretext his way past her as he had the store manager. It would require the truth, and the truth depended on how you arranged the facts.
“You’re still here,” Toby said, managing to sound both sardonic and delighted in the same breath.
“I’ll leave in the morning.”
“Enough with that. Please.”
Toby chatted at Gibson for a few minutes, still doing an admirable job pretending that the long-haired ghoul in his kitchen was, in any way, normal. One of Toby’s kitchen staff had a pregnant wife. A false alarm had forced Toby to sub for him midshift. It had not left him in the best mood. Toby excused himself to take care of his chores. He returned a few minutes later.
“I have laundry to do,” Toby said and held up Gibson’s duffel bag. “Mind if I disinfect whatever is in this?”
“Only if the incinerator is full.”
“Agreed,” Toby said and left him alone in the kitchen to contemplate Nicole.
This morning, Gibson had experienced a moment of self-righteous anger. He’d imagined meeting Nicole face-to-face. She’d stolen his daughter from him, and he hadn’t done anything wrong. But a day of cyberstalking his ex-wife had cost him the high road, and now he wasn’t sure what to do. Armed with her address, he could book a ticket to Seattle and confront her at home. But try as he might, he couldn’t find a way to say it that didn’t sound like an ambush. What was he hoping to achieve? Other than scare a woman afraid enough to take out a restraining order and confirm all her suspicions about him.