Chapter 7
“J esus Christ, I’m coming,” I grumble toward the front door from my bedroom, yanking a sweatshirt over my head. The pounding hasn’t let up for the three minutes it’s taken me to wake up and throw on something remotely acceptable to answer the door, which is a dead giveaway for who’s on the other side.
The clock next to the entrance reads 7:53 AM, and I wince, already bracing for the noise complaint emails I’ll inevitably get from the leasing office.
I kick out the door security bar and set it aside, then unlock the deadbolt and pull open the door. Sure enough, my brown eyes meet Harrison’s blue ones. His blond hair is dark with rain, and his long coat drips water onto the hallway rug.
“You look like a wet rat,” I say flatly, opening the door wider before turning away. He slips in, not even bothering to catch the door as it slams against the frame, rattling the entire room. I whip my head back toward him, my voice sharp. “I have neighbors, Harrison. I’d like to avoid getting evicted because you stomp around like an asshole every time you come by.”
He ignores me entirely, peeling off his soaked trench coat and giving it a shake that sprays water onto the shoes I neatly arranged by the closet. With an infuriating grin, he flings the coat onto the catch-all table next to him, drenching everything underneath it. My fists clench inside the front pocket of my sweatshirt.
If I kill him, how long would it take for Peter to notice? I could make it look like an accident. Hell, I’d even shed a few fake tears if needed.
Harrison strides toward me with his usual overconfidence, standing so close that we’re nearly nose-to-nose. It’s always bothered him that I’m on the taller side and harder to intimidate.
The air around him reeks of stale coffee and cigarettes. Instantly, his hand shoots out, gripping my throat with just enough pressure to make breathing difficult. My body doesn’t even have time to panic. I inhale through my nose, forcing his acrid scent further into my memory, and it takes everything in me not to gag.
“Shut the fuck up,” he growls before shoving me to the side by my neck as he continues down the hall and into my living room. My shoulder takes the brunt of the impact as I collide with the wall, a sharp jolt of pain shooting down my arm.
“Aren’t you in a pleasant mood this morning,” I bite out, rolling my shoulder as it quickly turns into a warm, dull ache. Trailing behind him, I watch his black boots, still caked in mud and whatever filth he’s picked up from the streets, leave a trail on my floors. “What do you want?”
He drops onto my couch like he owns the place, arms sprawling across the backrest. Today, he’s wearing a worn blue flannel and jeans, and the bags under his eyes tell me he hasn’t slept.
No wonder he’s acting like such a peach.
On the down low, I’ve been trying to figure out why Harrison’s still here. Peter never keeps two of us in the same city unless our jobs overlap, and even then, it’s rare. He’s obsessive about keeping his contractors siloed. Says it’s to avoid complications, but we all know it’s so we don’t compare notes or accidentally screw up each other’s work. Usually, we’re left in the dark about who’s working on what unless collaboration is absolutely necessary.
From what I’ve pieced together, Harrison’s not working on anything to do with the Wells contract, which only raises more questions. Is he here to babysit me, or is there something bigger going on that Peter hasn’t bothered to share? I can’t tell, and it’s making me itch to push him for answers, but with Harrison, that’s like poking a bear just to see if it’ll bite.
Still ignoring me, Harrison lifts his hips off the couch to reach into his back pocket. He pulls out his phone and, without a second thought, throws it in my direction. I snatch it out of the air just before it can hit the same shoulder he shoved into the wall.
“I need you to encrypt the email in my drafts and send it to Peter,” he says casually, as if I’m his personal IT department.
I glare at him, gripping the phone tightly. “I taught you how to send encrypted emails years ago.”
“Well, I forgot,” he responds in a slow, condescending cadence, the kind you’d use with a particularly dense toddler. Fire ignites in the pit of my stomach, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to hurl the phone back at his face.
“Please tell me this is a recent problem, and you’ve been encrypting your other emails?” I bite out, the venom clear in my tone.
“Sure,” he replies with a lazy wave of his hand, dismissing me and the concern like it’s nothing.
This idiot will be the death of me—if not directly, then indirectly when Peter comes down on me for his incompetence. For reasons I’ll never understand, Harrison is Peter’s golden boy. If something goes wrong, Peter will blame me and my encryption methods long before he finds fault with his precious Harrison.
“You need to encrypt your emails, Harrison,” I say, my voice sharp. “I’ll do it for you this time, but I’m showing you how to do it again before you leave.”
“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” he sighs dramatically, inspecting his fingernails as if they’re far more interesting than anything I could possibly have to say.
I drop into the chair across from him, already gritting my teeth. Unlocking his phone takes no effort. It doesn’t even have a passcode. Typical . I clench the device in my hand, resisting the urge to throw it against the wall. Leaving our phones unsecured is criminally reckless. If he ever loses it, even the world’s least competent hacker could access everything on it.
Pulling up his email app, I navigate to the draft he mentioned. It takes me all of thirty seconds to encrypt the message using a secure relay I’ve configured to reroute through encrypted servers. At least I can rest easy knowing my work won’t be the weak link in this mess.
Still, my fingers twitch as I skim the message and the vaguely labeled attachments. As much as I’d love to open them and see what Harrison’s been working on, I don’t have the time or the tools to dig through them without raising suspicion. If I were feeling particularly bold, I could install spyware on his phone without him ever noticing. Harrison’s so oblivious when it comes to tech that I could send him a fake system update, and he’d click the link without a second thought.
But that’s a dangerous game. The bigger question is whether I even want to know what he’s up to. And is it worth the risk of Peter finding out?
Before Harrison has a chance to ask why I’m still holding his phone, I toss it onto the empty seat next to him. “There,” I say flatly. “It’s sent.”
Harrison smirks, lounging back on the couch like a man who doesn’t have a care in the world. “Knew I could count on you.”
For a brief, satisfying moment, I imagine Peter finding out exactly how reckless Harrison is. But just as quickly, I push the thought aside. Harrison screws up, and I’m the one who gets burned—that’s the way it’s always been.
Leaning back, I rub my eyes, trying to push back the exhaustion that’s etched so deeply into my bones it feels permanent.
I’ve barely slept this week. Between combing through the Wells cloud during the day and expanding Scarlett Page’s online footprint by night, my head feels like it’s been shoved into a never-ending spin cycle. I was holding out hope for a breakthrough with the Wells data, and, in a way, I found one; a cluster of heavily encrypted files buried deep within their storage.
But these files are locked down tight. They’re restricted to top-level executives, meaning only a handful of people even know they exist, let alone have access. On top of that, their system is fortified with every safeguard imaginable.
Trying to break into this remotely isn’t just risky, it’s borderline impossible. One mistake, and I could trip their alarms, get locked out, or worse, leave a trail that points directly to me. Davey Sinclair clearly knows his stuff. The files are protected by every trick he can throw at them, and without full access, I’m stuck playing a very dangerous waiting game on the outside.
“If that’s all…” I trail off, dragging my fingers down my face, willing Harrison to finally leave and take his chaos with him.
“While I’m here,” Harrison continues, blatantly ignoring my hint as he props his muddy boots on my coffee table. The sight of them scuffing my green-and-blue patterned rug makes my blood simmer, but I bite my tongue. “Did you get an invitation to that silent auction?”
The past three weeks have been filled with carefully placed social outings with Natalie woven between my other work—casual coffee runs when I conveniently “happened to be in her neighborhood,” a last-minute yoga class, even an impromptu stop at a boutique opening where she needed a familiar face by her side. And it worked. Just two days ago, after a brisk winter walk through Lincoln Park, she handed me an invitation with a meek smile, which, of course, I accepted.
It didn’t even feel like a chore. Not with Natalie. She’s easy to be around, the kind of effortless company that makes blending in feel natural instead of calculated. And that’s dangerous in its own way.
I exhale sharply, bracing myself for whatever ridiculous request he’s about to make. “Yes. It’s next Thursday.”
“It’s about time you do something useful for us,” he says with a smile that makes my skin crawl. “While you’re there, I want you to find the Wells kid’s office. See if he’s got any files stored there. Maybe a laptop you can access.”
I lean forward, clasping my hands together as my palms start to sweat. Peter tried to push this idea on me earlier this week, and I had to remind him what kind of event this is. With so many of Chicago’s elite in attendance, the security will be airtight, both literally and figuratively. Sneaking around a 12,000-square-foot mansion without being caught isn’t just risky; it’s suicidal.
“I’ll do my best,” I reply carefully, choosing my words with precision. “But I’ve already told Peter my concerns. I’m not going to risk everything on this one event.”
Harrison rolls his eyes, standing as he tucks his phone back into his pocket. He’s clearly not sticking around for me to give him another tutorial on encrypting emails. Leaning over me, his expression hardens. “I don’t give a shit what you think. I want results.”
The “or else” lingers heavily in the air as he stalks toward the door, not bothering to wait for a response. As he picks up his jacket, he knocks several items off the table. He slams the door shut behind him, the sound reverberating through the apartment. Only when the echo fades into silence do I sink back into the couch, my chest heavy.
The silence isn’t comforting. My ears thrum with static, a constant noise that fills the void whenever I’m left alone with my thoughts. Pressing my fingers to my temples, I rub small circles, waiting for it to dull and for the familiar numbness to take its place. It’s the only way I’ll be able to focus on what comes next.