Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
DAMIEN
I meet Caylon at his house after I’m done with school. His daughter is with him, held back from kindergarten because she’s feeling ill. While we speak, she’s curled in his lap, issuing occasional demands in a grouchy voice.
It seems a miserable position to me, but even with his obvious exhaustion, he appears tousled and happy.
He’s also being deliberately evasive. If he weren’t the best at what he does, I’d be knocking on someone else’s door right now.
“Can’t you just access the school roll from the start of the year?”
“Sure,” he answers, beaming a brilliant smile at his daughter. “Daddy’ll just look up the school roll, won’t he precious? That’s a far better plan than Damien asking a classmate, isn’t it?”
When he gives her a tickle, she laughs until it turns into a coughing fit.
“You’re a hacker. So, hack.”
“I’m not risking myself for a surname. It’s not a secret codex.” His glance looks equal parts curious and exasperated. “What’s the problem with asking?”
“Because if word gets back to Chelsea, she’ll be livid.” He turns away but not before I catch his rolling eyes. “If I fuck this deal for—”
“Language!” He covers his daughter’s ears.
“If the merger falls through because of me, I’ll be paying you with recycled bottlecaps.”
“Fair enough. I’ll troll through her socials, then. Someone will know. Give me a few days.”
A few days? I jump up, pacing the small cell of a room, cracking my neck from side to side.
The urgency doesn’t make any sense. Then again, nothing involving Ophelia does. My eyes are still wretched from the pepper spray; I should be taking retribution, not plotting a campaign against some teenage nobody who put his hands on her without permission.
But finding the pills has me wound so tight I can barely breathe.
I’ve watched things die before but never a person, and it’s not like my father would bail me out of a murder charge as things stand right now.
This is a one-shot opportunity and I can’t afford to waste it.
Pacing doesn’t bring me enough relief, and I throw myself back down on the sofa, absentmindedly stroking the rough-textured pattern of the cushion. “Tell me about the cameras, then.”
“Camera. Single.” Caylon leans his daughter back against his chest and turns to the wall of computer monitors with relish.
“It’s an older model, five, six years, so it might be that long since it was installed.
There’s a receiver with recording capability in the wardrobe of the master bedroom downstairs, but no drive installed. So, no one captured your ugly mug.”
He glances over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow. “You reckon her dad’s a creep?”
I shrug. “Haven’t known her long, but I don’t get that vibe.”
“Could just as easily be an earlier tenant, given the hardware model. He mightn’t even know it’s there.”
I sit forward, impatience flickering again. “Right. And…?”
He flashes a grin. “And I updated it and split the feed between the recording station, just in case, and—” He snaps his fingers, holding out his hand and I pass across my phone. “You want this installed locally?”
“How much data?”
Caylon clicks his tongue. “Live feed is practically nothing. But I’ll set it so anything you record goes on the cloud.”
A few minutes later he hands it back, and I immediately click into the camera feed. It feels unreal staring straight into the bedroom I broke into this morning.
Even without Ophelia in shot, I’m content. A lascivious shiver runs up my back.
“And here’s your key.” Caylon fishes in his pocket for the duplicate back door key. “The original’s back in place. You know you could’ve had a tasker do it for forty bucks.”
“And worry about them blabbing for the next year? No thanks. Besides”—I kick the leg of his chair—“I like giving you work. It makes me feel like an old-style patron.”
“Whatever.”
His daughter mumbles something, and a moment later Bluey appears on the lowest monitor. Caylon sets some adorably fluffy pink headphones over her ears.
“Can’t I just record continuously?”
“Do what you like. You’re the one paying storage costs. At this high a quality, it’ll run you something like fifty or sixty gigs per day.”
“Is it possible to get some kind of tracking device on her phone?”
“If you get me the device, sure.” Caylon gives me a narrowed look, though underneath, he seems amused. “Who’s this girl to you? She’s a bit below your usual grade.”
“None of your fucking business is who.” I stand, pocketing my phone. “What’s the damage?”
“I’ll send you an itemised list once I track down your mystery man, but for today? Five grand.”
I transfer the funds, smiling as I let myself out. With the rest of the work, Caylon’s total bill will probably surpass the amount Ophelia wants for her glasses.
But it’s never been about the money.
Tonight, I’m meeting Chelsea at Effie Walkers and looking through the dress options she’s picked, then taking her out for dinner.
I’m also acutely aware that sometime today or tomorrow, Ophelia will discover an item’s no longer hidden in her secret compartment, and I don’t want to miss a second.
After checking the live feed again, I set the system up to record, then can’t stop watching, unaware of the minutes ticking by.
It’s only when Caylon knocks on the window and gestures me along that I toss my phone in the passenger seat and head home.
Already anticipating my weekend entertainment.