Chapter 25 Dance as They Burn
dance as they burn
Sariah
My phone is dead in the morning. So dead, I don’t even get the low battery sign on the front. Dead dead.
I learn this as Renée yells that we’ve overslept, and she’s late for school.
I’m over every day being an emotional minefield. I’m not made for these thrill rides. I’m meant for boring schedules and day-in, day-out routine.
Okay, that’s a lie. I’d probably lose my shit with boredom, but I could deal with the hits not coming every damn day.
I drop a frustrated and discombobulated teenager at school only to double back with her lunch. I triple back with her science homework by midmorning.
It’s been elementary school since I’ve been to a school three times in one day. Mostly because my jobs have never been so flexible that I could drop everything to make sure my girl has the sandwich she packed but forgot to carry, or because I was across town when it happened.
But I called in. I don’t know how they’ll handle four absences in a week and a half, but right now I don’t care. The day after Rosie was too important. Yesterday was critical. Today and tomorrow are imperative and if it takes longer, so be it.
They call it unlimited PTO. They don’t actually mean it, but sometimes they have to deal. Besides, they don’t have a backup for me, and I’ve delivered multiple vulnerabilities to the dev team to fortify. We cannot launch until the data can’t be stolen by hackers. And we’re not there yet.
I pour the world’s biggest cup of coffee and set up camp at the dining table to begin discovering the structure of the app that my daughter is being violated through. The disassembling and doxing will be easy as soon as I understand the backbone it rests on.
Language-wise, I speak them all. I could never imagine at Renée’s age that I would ever use a computer, much less be able to program them, build apps, or break them down. I still have no clue how I have an aptitude that allows me to do this, but I’ve stopped questioning how or why.
By mid-afternoon, I’ve penetrated the site and begun pulling data. I have a spreadsheet of usernames, registration data, and unique identifiers, including IP addresses. Seriously, how lax is their pen testing? Their data security is non-existent.
One of the key data components is the user birthdate. There’s a specific breakoff in the under eighteens and the volume of messages and data sent.
At the risk of my own sanity, I find my daughter’s birthday and download all the messages associated with her account.
I’m relieved to see the volume of messages didn’t arrive months ago.
But I am disheartened by how easy it was to reel in my less-than-tech-savvy daughter with a slow rise in images, in how much and how graphic they poured in.
I taught her better.
No, I didn’t train her at all for this onslaught.
Her innocent responses probably— I stop that thought in its tracks. No more. She’ll never be in this position again because I failed her.
Tonight’s going to be another one of those non-stop thrill rides where we both wish the conversation would just end already.
I pull the identifier of the accounts that contacted her and then start worming their profiles to see how many and who they preyed on. All under sixteen. Some under twelve.
My temper rises and my fingers fly.
The top two thousand data movers in the app are sending porn to kids.
By the time Renée and Rosie get home from school, their accounts are locked from deletion.
I allow the predators to incriminate themselves further.
All the while, I send an apology into the universe to the parents that there’s another day of this shit on their kids’ devices.
Three quarters of these users are overseas, and I’ll dox them good. But that one quarter who are stateside? I’ll rain down hellfire on them and watch them dance as they burn.
I lock my computer and fight to clear my mind of the images I saw, the struggle it’s been to know my daughter was exposed, and the knowledge that I couldn’t stop it all today.
I cook. We eat. Renée does homework. Rosie looks a little worse for wear, but since I’m still in my pajamas from last night and the knot on the top of my head hasn’t been adjusted since first thing this morning, I have no room to talk.
I forego the conversation with Renée for tonight. I’ve got that vibration inside my chest that means anxiety is having its way with me. I know better than trying to stay calm and be moderate when it’s crawling inside me like a colony of ants on a gumdrop.
I would ground her from her phone—and I still might—but she’s present with me. Homework’s done. TV is on to a sitcom and both of us have our devices down. I also have no creativity left from my day to make an excuse.
She also knows that I have the right at any time to audit and review her phone usage, data history, and anything and everything I can dig into. That’s the deal we made when she got it. Neither of us wants that, so she’s smart enough to leave it at night and not push the boundaries at school.
We both assume her privacy is important. I won’t cross that unless I have to. And God help us both when I do.
It’s after she’s showered and gone to bed that I grab my laptop again.
Before I can start, I get a text.
Cian: How was your day, Angel?
We texted a little bit here and there, but between his discharge and napping and my full-out assault on the fucking app pornographers, we’ve been hit or miss.
Me: Crazy productive. I can’t remember a day in the last five years when I’ve gotten so much done.
Cian: Proud of you.
Cian: You ready to take on the lion’s den?
Me: I will be. You wouldn’t happen to know someone at CBI?
Cian: Not off the top of my head but let me ask around. And by ‘around,’ I mean my brother and brother-in-law. My intelligence circle is small.
Me: Mine too. Just your brother and your brother-in-law. {winky face}
Me: I want to talk to someone and really lay it all out. I don’t want them to find all that porn on my computer and then find it on devices of minors. Getting caught in the crosshairs is not on my agenda for the week. Or my life.
Me: I’m deleting that text.
And I do. No need for any keywords for the carriers to find.
Cian: I’ve been thinking about the app. I haven’t gotten a message. Have you?
Me: No.
Cian: What if that’s because of our birthdays? What if they’re not sending to us because of age? Or sex?
Me: Sex wouldn’t matter. The majority of the messages are to girls, but boys are receiving too. I haven’t dug into engagement. Don’t know whether I will. Those are factors too… Who bites and when?
Me: I can’t believe I’m not puking seeing how my daughter bit. I can’t tell who I’m more pissed at—the perverts or myself.
Cian: Back off the ledge, mama bear. You’re fixing it and you’re fixing it in a loud way.
Me: But your point is valid. Hold on one second.
I toggle to the app and roll the spinning wheel to a birthday a year before Renée’s. Still too young, but fresh bait. I also update the picture to something young from the generic avatar.
Me: I’m now fifteen.
Cian: Yeah, don’t say that.
Me: Change of topic since I grossed myself out. How’s the face?
Cian: Surprisingly painful, but the swelling is remarkably better. Almost thirty-six hours. Half way through the worst of it.
Cian: Are you going to work tomorrow or are you Nancy Drewing the app again?
Me: Why do people keep making verbs out of nouns? And yes, I’m sleuthing.
Cian: Want to come sleuth here? I’ll just be sitting around or napping.
Cian: I have an assortment of liquid beverages for your dining pleasure.
Me: You were a better flirt before the surgery.
Cian: I’ll work on it. Tomorrow?
Me: Sure.
Cian: {Address details}
Me: We don’t live that far away.
Cian: We really don’t.
Cian: And you can meet Eleanor.
Me: I’d like that.
Cian: Goodnight, Angel.
Me: ’Night, Ci.
I don’t say I love you. He doesn’t either, but I feel it in my bones.
It’s not the giddy teenager thing, though that still exists.
It’s the bone-deep knowing that my soul has found its home.
And is safe.
Cian
I wake with a spring in my step and the vise still firmly shrinking my head. Eleanor and I grab a slow walk and I let the crisp spring air burn my lungs as the sun warms what little of my face is exposed.
If I consider what the neighbors must think, I’d never walk. I’m black and blue. My bandage job sucks in comparison with the professionals. My morning run has been replaced with the slowest walk in history.
Eleanor came back from Ayla’s exhausted.
Franklin must’ve put her through her paces.
At least she got to run and play. Though, if I’m being honest, she’s not much of a dog’s dog.
She prefers humans. Oh well. Life now includes the maligator, so she’s stuck.
God bless Christian for choosing the most fearless dog imaginable.
I know he was thinking protection, but he probably just equipped my sister with the buddy she least needs on her hikes.
But at least Ayla will have the teeth of a well-trained assault dog if she ever encounters another bear.
We’re walking up the driveway when a familiar SUV rounds the curve. Impeccable timing.
I walk to Sariah’s door and hold it open for her to exit. “Morning, Angel. Ready to kick today’s ass?”
I wish that sounded badass but with the missing teeth and the extra wind it comes out like a lisp. Reathy to kick tothay’s ath. I have to stop trying to sound tough until I get my teeth back.
“Morning, love. I’m ready to make today my bitch.”
Lordy, where did she come from? And can I keep her?
She exits the car, and her eyes drop to the dog sitting proudly between my legs. “You must be Eleanor.” Her eyes lift to mine. “Why do I sound so formal?”
She looks back and extends the top of her hand. “Hi, sweet girl. Have you been taking care of Ci?”
The tail swish is the welcome I wanted. “Okay,” I say, releasing her from her sit, and she rushes to Sariah’s legs, sits, and waits for the pets she knows are coming.
“Hi, Eleanor. You’re beautiful. And you have soulful eyes.”
“And I thought you only used that line on me.”
“Yours are my favorite.” She faceplants into my chest, before looking up to hold my gaze. “But hers are windows. You can see all the way to her toes in those depths.”
I kiss the top of her head and drop an arm over her shoulder, placing her computer bag on my own. “Come on.”
She closes her door, and we make our way inside. Eleanor sits on the floor mat, waiting for me to disengage her harness. When I do, she tears off for her water bowl.
I look up to find the woman I want to make a life with gawking at my house. Her mouth hangs open and she steps tentatively into the great room, apparently drinking it in.
“This is your home?”
“Yes.” Though home doesn’t feel like the right term anymore. It’s a house. A home is where love and family reside, where one finds peace. I’m halfway there. “It was in foreclosure, but it had good bones. I repaired what I wanted to keep and gutted what I wanted changed.”
“You make that sound easy. And cheap.”
“No. But it’s what I know. And we have… Had? Have?—I don’t know which anymore—crews to do the work and architect friends who could identify load-bearing walls. The location was perfect, and the price was right. It simply took some elbow grease and time to reveal what it could be.”
“Elbow grease and time?” It’s as if she’s talking to herself. “That’s how I refer to paint from Home Depot.”
“And you can bring down a porn ring inside an online app.” I walk up behind her and slide my arms around her waist, letting her heat melt into my chest. “An app, I’ll add, that I can’t figure out how to change my birthday in. We have different strengths.”
“Speaking of—” She turns in my arms. “Guess who started getting messages last night?”
I fight not to tighten my body. “They started sending you pictures?” I’d clench my jaw if it hadn’t been done for me.
She nods quickly. “Yep.”
“I’m not loving your enthusiasm about dick pics.”
Her hand firmly on my chest, she presses up onto her toes and hovers her lips near mine. “It makes them repeat offenders. It’s perfect.”
“You’re perfect.” I press my lips to hers in a touch that I wish I could take deeper.
I’m sure she can feel the heat between us as blood surges to my cock, but I pull my pelvis away and turn her toward the kitchen.
“You need to work. So do I actually. And if you can finish today, then I don’t have to think about other men sending you nudes. ”
Her head tips up. “Cian Murphy, are you jealous?”