Chapter 35 The Collective
THE COLLECTIVE
EMERY
Trust me. Trust me. Trust me. His empty words replay over and over again in my head as I stare at the computer.
He’s lying to me. I’m certain. There’s something hidden within these files that he doesn’t want me to uncover.
Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe I don’t need to know what lies within this account.
Plus, I don’t particularly want to get sucked into his web of corporate subterfuge.
Right…?
In situations like this, ignorance is always bliss. I should exit the server. I should move on to the next account. I should focus on the fact Damon is taking me out tonight. For real. Not to fuck but to bond. The thought alone leaves me anxious.
He told me to trust him, and I should. I want to give him the benefit of the doubt. I want to believe him when he says it’s just another client, but I can’t seem to exit out of the server. VenCore. VenCore. Where have I heard that fucking name before?
I close my eyes and think. Think, goddamn it.
VenCore…
VenCore…
“One more question…” The reporter swallows. “Mr. Cavanaugh, what can you tell us about VenCore LLC?”
“VenCore?” Damon asks. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard that name before.”
“But—”
“Let’s go.” He takes my hand. “I hate reporters. Bunch of opportunistic scum.”
“What’s VenCore?” I ask. “Damon?”
“Nothing. After you.”
My eyes spring open. The fundraiser. That’s where I heard it.
But… But it doesn’t make sense. Why would the reporter ask him about it?
My frustration grows deeper. What the hell is VenCore?
! Without wanting to draw attention to my online searches, I pull out my personal cell phone and do a Google search.
If it’s a registered LLC, then it should come up.
It should pop up on some sort of database.
Please. I scroll through the search results, my stomach in knots as absolutely nothing of value appears on the screen.
Nothing. How can there be nothing? It’s like this company doesn’t even exist.
My gaze flits back to the computer monitor. It’s just a password. A ten-digit code. I should’ve paid more attention when Tom was babbling on about his underground hacker network. What was its name?
If I could just…
I need to get better at controlling my impulses.
“Hello?” Tom’s wary voice croaks through the phone. “Emery?”
“Hello, Tom,” I say, suddenly anxious. “How are you?”
He scoffs. “How am I? Seriously? You drop off the face of the earth for months, and you ask me how I am? I’m great, Emery. Truly fantastic. I’m dating someone new. Ellen. From legal.”
“That’s good,” I hum. “She was always quite friendly.”
“What do you want, Emery?” he asks, tone stern and cold. It makes sense. I did hurt him. “Well?”
I bite my lip. This is insane. Why do I care? Why can’t I let it go? “Remember that underground coding collective you were a part of?” I ask, silencing my moral compass. “What was it called again?”
“What?” he asks. “Why?”
“No reason,” I mutter, wincing. “Just forgot the name is all.”
“Emery…” Tom's tone falls soft. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing, I just…” Truth or lie? A nice dash of both? “I’m locked out of a system at work, and I, uh…I entered my password too many times. It blocked me.”
“Okay… So? Contact your IT department.”
I cringe. Stupid. “I can’t. It’s, umm…” For fuck’s sake. This was a mistake. “Never mind. It’s fine. I’ll figure it out.”
“AnonCo,” Tom sighs. “It’s called AnonCo.”
“Oh… Thank you,” I mumble, jotting down the name. “Got it.”
“They’re not searchable, Em,” Tom says slowly. “In case you were planning on Googling it.”
“Oh…” Dammit.
Tom grumbles. “Fuck… Tony. That’s the head of the group, okay? I’ll send you their details. But, Em?”
“Yeah?” I chew on the inside of my cheek.
“Whatever you’re doing…” he trails off. “Maybe…don’t.”
“I’m not doing anything,” I say, glancing down at the phone screen as a text from Tom pops up in my notifications. “Thanks for this. I owe you one.”
“Uh-huh,” he hums. “Sure.”
“Well, take care, Thomas,” I say. “I hope everything works out with Ellen. You, uh… You deserve to be happy.”
“Mhmm. I wish I could say the same. Goodbye, Emery.”
And he hangs up. I don’t give Tom’s icy comment another thought before I type out a long-winded text message to “Tony” with my request. I get a reply within seconds.
Five minutes
That’s it? Flicking my nails, I stare at my computer screen. Five minutes until what? Until they call me? Until they show up here? The seconds tick by and nothing happens.
Nothing—
My heart jumps up my throat as I notice my cursor moving across the screen, but I’m not controlling it. Jesus. Shaking my head, my gaze floats to the various dialog boxes popping up on the screen and the dozens of perplexing codes written in neon green. What the fuck did I do?
My phone vibrates with a text message.
You’ve got three minutes of being incognito then it’ll shut off. Good luck.
My head snaps up to the monitor, and I gasp at the dozens of payment files filling the screen. Shit. Three minutes. Okay. I begin scrolling through the transactions.
All outgoing. All on the same day each month. Twenty thousand dollars monthly. Dates back three years.
I click on the account details, and the only section filled in is a routing number and name.
I jot down the numbers in my notebook, frowning as I read the name.
It’s not even a full name. Just initials.
M. N. What the fuck? I try to click on a secondary document, but the screen freezes, and just like that, the window closes.
I’m left baffled, gawking at the sleek Cavanaugh Industries logo, my brain attempting to process what the fuck I just saw.
Payments. Those were payments, right? But for what? Services? Information? If that was the case, why the secrecy? Why the limited access? I know the answer. I hate that I know it—silence.
I send another message to Tony. This request might be a bit more complex than breaking into a multimillion-dollar security system.
I know my routing numbers. I’ve managed Mr. Kenneth’s books for five years.
I know when something is offshore. But I need a name.
A full name. The name of the account holder.
They reply back.
This one will cost you. Bitcoin. 2 grand. Once I get your payment, I’ll get to work. Seven days max. Maybe sooner.
They send me their crypto wallet account number, and I stare at it.
What the fuck am I doing? Jesus, this is all so illegal.
In the last ten minutes I’ve committed so many federal offenses, I could be jailed for decades.
Prison. I could go to fucking prison. And for what?
For the truth? So I can see if Damon lied to me?
To verify what I already know? I’ve lost it. I’ve… I’ve lost it.
And I continue losing it as I transfer two thousand dollars worth of Bitcoin to Tony’s account.
I feel like I’m on autopilot. Like I’m in zero control of my actions.
This isn’t logical. This isn’t rational.
This isn’t something I would ever have done.
It’s him. This is his fault. He’s making me act unhinged.
Got it. I’ll message you when I find something. Talk soon, Emery Jones. And stop frowning so much. Your secret is safe with me.
Another message pops up, and I gasp.
Smile for the camera, bella.
My heart batters against my ribs as I look up at the webcam attached to the top of my monitor and tilt my head. No… Are they…? I frantically reach for the camera cord and unplug it. Another text.
You’re no fun.
I send a message.
How do you know my name?
They reply.
It’s always important to know the people you get into bed with, no? Ciao for now.
Panic washes over me. This was a horrible mistake. Oh, God, I fucked up. What was I thinking? Placing a hand over my chest, I take several deep breaths, hoping to calm myself down. Who am I? Who does this? Nosy bitch. Why? This is bad. This is—
I gasp as my cell phone rings, physically jolting in my seat. With a shaky hand, I flip over my phone, wincing before reading the caller ID. Quinton. My shoulders relax. Not the FBI. It’s fine. I’m fine. Clearing my throat, I answer.
“Hello?”
“Why are you whispering, darling?” he asks, cheeky. “Is the warden present?”
Was I whispering? “No,” I say louder, more confident. “He’s not. I’m in my office. Alone.”
“Mmm,” he hums. “I see. Well, how are you?”
I swallow. “Fine. You?”
“No, little Emery, how are you?” he asks again, emphasizing each word. “How are you feeling?”
Anxious? Worried? Scared? Those are all honest answers. But he’s not asking about what just unfolded. He’s asking about my appointment. My health. It’s funny. I suppose the answer is the same for both.
“No news is good news, right?” I sigh. “My cardiologist hasn’t reached out, so I assume I’m not in any immediate danger of dropping dead.”
“That’s not very funny, darling,” he says, tone low and strained.
“I wasn’t trying to be funny,” I say with a shrug. “There’s a high probability that I could form a blood clot any moment. That clot could travel up to my brain. I could have a stroke, and I could die. It’s a fact, Quin. Can’t be mad at facts.”
“True,” he hums. “But you could also live. Have you thought of that?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re a doctor. I’m sure you know that the stats aren’t really in my favor.”
“I am a doctor,” he says, “and I know for a fact that a positive mindset has just as much an effect on a patient’s diagnosis as any drug or treatment.”
“If positive thinking is all it took, Doctor Marquis,” I jeer, “you’d be out of business in a day. You make money off false hope, and I don’t want to buy it.”
He’s silent for a loaded beat. “Whether you want to believe it or not, darling, not everyone who works in pharmaceuticals is a monster. Some of us are trying to help cure people. And not just temporarily.”
“Don’t mention that to your board,” I joke. “You might find yourself without employment.”
Quinton doesn’t laugh. “My mother died of cancer, Emery, and no amount of money will ever bring her back.”
I wince. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. That was insensitive.”
“Well, now you do,” he says, clearing his throat. “Speaking of my mother…” He pauses. “My family and I host an annual memorial fundraiser in her name. I was wondering… I was hoping, perhaps, that you’d like to attend with me.”
I blink. “As your date?”
“As a friend,” he says, tone sweet, almost too sweet. “We are friends, aren’t we, darling?”
We’re something. But I can’t figure out what. “I suppose,” I hum. “In the loosest of terms.”
He chuckles lightly. “I’ll take it. So? Is that a yes?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek. “When is it?”
“Christmas Eve,” he says, a hint of longing in his tone. “That’s when she passed.”
My heart hurts for him. “Okay. I’ll go with you.”
Quinton lets out a relieved sigh. “Thank you, darling. It means a lot to me.”
“Of course,” I say softly. “But don’t expect me to make small talk.”
He chuckles. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Well, I’ll let you go, darling. Don’t work too hard now, okay?”
“Goodbye Quinton.”
“Oh! One more thing—You have a passport, correct?”
“What?” I ask, frowning. “Yeah, I do, but—”
“Splendid,” he coos. “Have a good evening, little Emery.”
“Why—” Quinton hangs up before I have a chance for a follow-up question.
My temples pulse as I lean back into the chair, my mental battery drained. A knock on the door jerks me upright. Damon leans against the frame, smiling at me.
“Yes?” I ask.
“Wear a warm jacket tonight, Miss Jones,” he says, licking his lips. “It tends to get cold where we’re going.”
“And where is that?”
“You’ll see.” He tosses me a coy grin. “Trust me, you’ll love it.”
Trust him. I want to trust him. I should trust him. But it’s hard. It’s so fucking difficult. When you trust someone, you give them a little piece of your heart. It’s theirs. Whether they manipulate your heart or protect it? That’s the risk. That’s the risk with trust.
Is the risk worth the reward?