Chapter Four
Forty-five minutes later, he had Cara Beckett and her meager belongings packed into a state-issued SUV heading north on US 65. They were quiet as they exited the busy metro area north of Conway and headed up into the foothills of the Ozark Mountains. The moment she’d sat down in the car, she called her mother from his phone, having surrendered the new mobile to him by way of tossing it at the condo’s sofa.
Wyatt didn’t call her out on her decidedly less-than-Zen attitude. Her life had been ripped out from under her feet in the past week or so. And with the LYYF company’s public offering about to take off, things were only going to get more hectic.
He’d offered her coffee and a fast-food breakfast, but she’d refused, keeping her arms crossed tight over her chest. He ordered a bottle of water along with his morning dose of caffeine.
Caught by a red light in Greenbrier, Wyatt cast a sidelong glance at his passenger. She sat stoically staring through the windshield when he offered her the bottle of water. “Single-use containers are poisoning our air and killing our oceans,” she said stiffly.
He stared back at her, keeping his expression neutral though he could feel his ears heating. “How did you sleep last night?”
“I didn’t,” she retorted.
He waggled the evil water bottle in front of her. “A lack of proper rest can lead to dehydration. Right now, my mission is to keep you alive. We’ll worry about the planet tomorrow.”
“Exactly the sort of attitude responsible for our current climate change crisis.”
“I’m not covering the planet today. I’m tasked with taking care of you. Drink the water,” he ordered, tossing the bottle into her lap as the light changed.
He accelerated, trying to swallow back his exasperation. She wasn’t sulking, per se, but she was not thrilled about the arrangement. And she wasn’t drinking the water. He added stubborn to his mental list of things he knew about Cara Beckett. A list not nearly long enough if he was going to be any help in figuring out who was behind the cyber and real-world attacks against her.
“So, you grew up in Snowball?”
She shook her head. “Snowball is the closest dot on the map.”
“Your parents own a ranch?”
“A little over six hundred acres. My dad keeps anywhere between fifty and seventy-five head of Black Angus cattle.”
Her tone was flat, but he picked up a hint of pride in her delivery. “Wow. Sounds like a lot. Is it a lot?” he asked, glancing over at her for confirmation.
She shrugged. “I’d say about average for a family ranch.” Her monotone response faded into a faintly mocking tone. “Let me guess, you’re a city boy? Grew up in Little Rock?”
He shook his head, his lips twitching into a smirk meant to show her exactly how wrong she was about him. “Nope. Born and raised in Stuttgart, home of Ricebirds.”
He felt her appraising stare. “Were you a farm kid?”
Unable to keep up the ruse, he allowed the smirk to take over as he shook his head. “Nah. My dad sold insurance.”
“Ah.”
Awkward silence descended like a thick fog. Grasping for information and a conversational straw, he asked, “You get along with your parents?”
She shot him a sidelong glance. “Do you?”
“Yeah,” he replied without hesitation.
“I do too, but you know what they say...”
“What?”
This time, she couldn’t repress the smile. “You think you’re enlightened, spend a week with your family.”
He chuckled. “I get you.”
They drove in silence for a while. Finally, he prompted her to tell him her version of the story. “Start at the beginning. What was the first odd thing you noticed?”
Cara’s fingers curled around the edge of the console between them. She was quiet, and for a minute, he thought perhaps she would not answer. He couldn’t blame her for wanting to play things close to the chest. Her personal information had been scattered across multiple forums. He’d seen at least a half-dozen entries himself. And the threats came standard with this kind of cyberattack. People talked tough when tucked safely behind a keyboard. But somebody, or some people, had taken a giant step out of the shadow of internet anonymity.
Hopefully, it would make them easier to find.
“It’s hard to say,” she murmured, her face turned toward the scenery whizzing past.
The fall foliage was near peak color as October gave way to November. It seemed wrong to spoil such beautiful scenery with talk of ugliness.
“There have always been messages. Even before the app took off. You know, the usual online slime. People trying to slide into my inbox. Once LYYF started gaining traction, I got hit up for money more often than I was hit on,” she said, a wry smile twisting her lips. “Tom likes to say he knew we’d made it when guys starting fishing for my account numbers rather than my phone number.”
“Tom is Tom Wasinski,” he clarified, shooting her a glance.
“Yes. Tom Wasinski.”
“He and Chris Sharpe are your partners in LYYF,” he stated.
“Yes.”
“And you knew them from...college,” he prompted, hoping to get her talking.
“Yes. We were suite mates our freshman year. Stayed friends through school and after.”
“You did the voice-over work for them from the beginning?”
When she didn’t add anything more to the story, he stole a peek at her. She stared stone-faced through the windshield, and he winced. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to trample all over your story.”
“Not my story,” she said in a clipped tone. “But you seem pretty well-versed in the lore of LYYF, so who am I to spoil it for you?”
Biting the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning his frustration with himself, Wyatt tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I think I was trying to impress you with how much I know.” He offered her a wan smile as they slowed to pass through one of the myriad small towns along the route. “I want you to feel comfortable talking to me. Safe. I’m here to help.”
She shifted in her seat, turning to face him more fully. “If you want me to feel comfortable telling my story, you might try listening. I don’t need you to recite the press clippings to me.”
Chastened, he ducked his head to acknowledge the point scored. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. The tires hummed as silence overtook them once again. He waited, but when she didn’t volunteer anything more, he pressed his lips together and nodded, owning his ignorance. “Would you tell me what happened?”
She blew out a long breath, letting her head fall back against the seat. The woman beside him didn’t look anything like the glossy, glowing guru on his app. She looked haunted. Hunted. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse.
“Everyone latches on to the voice work like all I did was show up and read a few cue cards one day.”
For once in his life, he had sense enough to keep his lips zipped.
“They were working on a finance app.” She gave a dry little laugh. “It wasn’t much more than a bookkeeping tool. Like one of those account trackers my mom used to use to record each check or ATM withdrawal. You know, the little booklet with three years’ worth of calendars printed on there?”
“Checkbook register,” he said with a nod.
“Exactly. Anyway, they were developing it all through school. It changed and evolved as we did. People weren’t tracking checks and more banks had apps where you could see your transactions real-time, so they started retooling it to be more of a finance guide for kids our age.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Simple stuff. Interest calculators, a stock market widget and some how-to guides one of the business majors a couple years older than us wrote up as part of their thesis project.”
“Interesting.”
She scoffed. “It wasn’t. It was boring. But by the time we graduated, almost everyone we knew had made some sort of contribution.” She gave him a smirk. “I recorded a few videos with tips and tricks for acing job interviews.”
“And this was under the LYYF banner?”
“At the time it was Life. L-I-F-E. We even had some cheesy tagline about it being the only tool a person needed to win at the game of life.”
“Catchy.”
“Anyhow, the concept grew and evolved, and as Tom and Chris became better programmers, the possibilities kept expanding.”
She propped her elbow on the door and pressed her thumb into her temple as if talking about the past gave her a headache. But he didn’t give her an out. He couldn’t. Her life was on the line.
“How did LYYF as we know it come about?”
She gazed out at the passing scenery. “Sometime in my sophomore year, I’d gone on a commercial audition where I met a woman who was into Transcendental Meditation. We got to talking, she told me about a retreat happening near campus. It was free, I was...searching...”
The last word trailed away, and he let it go for a few minutes. He knew sifting through memories was sometimes like reading lines of data—whatever you were looking for usually popped out the moment you let your focus go a bit fuzzy.
They were navigating one of the steep downhill stretches before she spoke again.
“Anyhow. I got into meditation and yoga as a way to deal with the constant rejection,” she said quietly.
“And all this time you were in school?”
She nodded. “I booked a few local ads, but never a national campaign. I was too generic for most casting directors.”
He blinked, taken aback. The woman had to know she was a knockout, but her unflinchingly harsh assessment of her looks sounded too clinical to be false modesty.
“You’re hardly a generic anything.”
The words he intended as a compliment came out awkward, stilted by his desire not to cross any professional boundaries. When he chanced a peek at her, he found her wearing the serene half smile she wore on the app’s welcome screen.
“Not only is he a protector, but also he’s a poet,” she mocked, eyes crinkling with humor.
Heat prickled his neck. Determined to brazen out his embarrassment, he shot her a quelling look. “You know what I mean.”
“I do. And thank you,” she said, sounding thoroughly amused. “But pretty enough by Arkansas standards means I wasn’t even in the ballpark in LA.” Before he could argue the point further, she continued. “I was telling Tom all about this breathing technique I was using to help deal with nerves, and he said something about how it wasn’t only actors who needed coping skills. The next thing I knew, I was cooking up a short script about how I got into meditation and the practical applications.” She shrugged. “We purposefully omitted as much of the new-age terminology as possible and replaced it with some of the corporate catchphrases we were hearing all around us. Soon, we had about ten sessions written up, each focusing on a particular stressor or coping technique we thought would be helpful. I recorded them on my phone sitting in my closet using an earphone mic. And now you know the real LYYF origin story.”
“Why were you sitting in a closet?” he asked, perplexed by this odd little detail.
“Sound absorption,” she explained. “It had this nasty beige carpet left over from the nineties. We hung blankets on the walls and pushed most of the clothes back so they wouldn’t be too close around me, but yeah. It worked.”
“I guess so,” he said, impressed.
“By the time we graduated, the guys were off and running with the life management idea. I was still making the rounds, doing auditions and waiting tables.”
“Where were they getting their money?”
“Chris had money. Trust fund kid. Tom’s parents supported him too. His dad was a surgeon and did well enough, but it wasn’t inherited money like the Sharpes’. But Tom’s parents were the competitive type. They wanted to keep up with the Sharpes, so they pretty much gave him an unlimited line of credit.”
“And your folks...” he trailed off.
“Are rich in land and not much more. You know how it is,” she said with a shrug.
And he did. There were plenty of families like hers around Stuttgart. Rice farmers with large stretches of valuable farmland who scrimped, saved and relied on government subsidies to keep from selling parcels off as the modern world closed in around them.
Cara continued her story. “When those first ten sessions started getting more clicks than some of the other sessions, they asked if I wanted to do more.” She shrugged. “I wrote another ten and people seemed to like those too.”
“And eventually, they asked if you wanted to be their partner?”
Pressing the tip of her tongue to her upper lip, she shook her head hard. “Uh, no,” she said with a sharp little laugh. “They asked me to write and record more. I had two waitressing jobs, was pulling some temp hours doing reception work and still trying to land a part, any part. I told them I didn’t have time.”
“I see.”
“A couple weeks passed, then Chris called me back saying they would pay me.”
“Did they?”
She nodded. “A thousand bucks for another ten sessions. It doesn’t sound like much now, and in context, but at the time it was the difference between making rent or buying a plane ticket home.” She sighed, twisting her fingers together in her lap. “But, naturally, they were always more focused on the technology than the content. When the new sessions dropped and users started asking for more, they didn’t want to spend time and money on developing content to be delivered regularly. Chris was the one who suggested they cut me in as a partner.”
“Sounds like a big leap. For all of you,” he added.
“It was a great deal for them. Particularly if the app didn’t find traction. I was responsible for writing, producing and performing all consumer-facing wellness and lifestyle content. Research, scripting, recording...everything. We used to like to joke about how they made the widgets, I made the rest.”
He let out a low whistle. “I had no idea.”
“Most people don’t.” She gave a short laugh. “At the time, I was still auditioning for my big Hollywood career, so I was happy to let them handle what little press we got for LYYF. Since the only exposure we got in the early days was on tech blogs and forums, the narrative developed from there.”
“Chris and Tom went on to become tech stars and you were cast as the wannabe actress who finagled her way into a very lucrative partnership.”
She nodded, but her smile was self-deprecating. “I can’t complain. It’s been the most celebrated role of my entire acting career.”
“Made you famous.”
“It made me known in certain circles,” she corrected. “Anyway, my point is, there have always been people who believed I didn’t deserve what I had. They let their feelings be known on forums and chat rooms, then when the app itself became geared more toward interaction, direct messages. So, you see, it’s hard to pinpoint a time when the harassment started, because it’s been happening all along.”
Wyatt hummed his understanding. The tech world was still disproportionately male, and some quarters were openly hostile to female interlopers. “What was your first hint it was going beyond the usual?”
“I started getting more direct messages on the app and on social media.”
“What kind of DMs?”
“The usual. Name-calling. People saying I’m nothing but a parasite. No talent. Ugly. Commentary on my body, my voice, the way I breathe,” she said tiredly.
“The way you breathe is a lifesaver for some people.” The words were out of his mouth before he could vet them. Mortified, he kept his gaze locked on the series of curves ahead of them.
“I tell myself it is,” she said quietly. “But some days it’s easier to believe the bad over the good.”
He knew the feeling too well. “I understand.”
“I didn’t start to get worried until the texts began.”
“I imagine those were more of the same?”
“Yes,” she confirmed. “But coming directly to my phone, they felt more...menacing.”
“What did you do?”
“I sent them to Tom. He’s always up for solving a mystery. In this case it wasn’t much of a challenge for him. A simple search showed my name popping up in various forums. The next thing I knew, we found my cell number along with my home address, as well as several personal email addresses posted.” He sensed her looking at him and turned. “The one I used last night was not one of them.”
“So someone is actively monitoring your internet usage,” he concluded, meeting her gaze.
She heaved a weary sigh as she smoothed her eyebrows with her thumb and middle finger. “I need to text Zarah and tell her I’ve checked out of the rental.”
He nodded. “Use my phone.” As if on cue, his phone rang. The display showed the caller to be Trooper Masterson. He hesitated for a moment before answering, but at Cara’s questioning look, accepted the call.
“This is Dawson. We’re hands-free,” he announced, wanting to give the other man fair warning.
“Dawson. Is Ms. Beckett with you?” Masterson asked.
“Yes,” Wyatt said.
“I’m here,” Cara answered at the same time.
“Ms. Beckett, I wanted to let you know your rental car has been recovered,” the trooper informed her.
“It has?”
“Where?” Wyatt asked, stepping over her words in turn.
“It was found in section 104 of the parking deck at the airport,” the older man replied.
“Section 104,” Cara murmured.
“Anything recovered?” Wyatt pressed.
“We have a team going over it now, but it appears most of your belongings were left intact. There was a large leather bag with your wallet, phone and other personal items on the front floorboard, and a travel bag in the back seat.”
He let off the gas and coasted toward the shoulder of the road, tires crunching on loose gravel as he slowed to a stop. A car whizzed past. Seconds passed before a speeding tanker truck left them rocking in its wake. He and Cara shared a glance.
“Any cash or credit cards in the wallet?” Wyatt asked.
“My officer on scene checked. Says it doesn’t look like your passenger took anything.”
Wyatt did his best to keep his expression impassive. She was searching his face for clues, and he didn’t have one to give. “So no theft,” he said, his tone flat.
“Other than the vehicle,” Masterson supplied.
“Which was found in the exact spot where Ms. Beckett found it,” Wyatt supplied.
“But I... He...” she spluttered. “This wasn’t some fantasy abduction I made up to scare people,” she insisted, voice rising in agitation. “The truck driver. Eustace. Mr. Stubbs. He saw us. He saw me jump out of the car. He saw a man take off with the rental car.”
“We do have Mr. Stubbs, the driver who picked you up. He gave a statement and as much of a description as he could,” Masterson said in a patronizingly soothing tone. “And we may get lucky with some hair or other fibers.”
But it didn’t sound like he was expecting much. And even if they did come up with forensic evidence, the perpetrator would have to be somewhere in the system for there to be a match.
“Okay,” Wyatt said, hoping to redirect the conversation. “Let me know what the forensics team finds. I have Emma Parker with the CCD working on some data tracking for us too. I’ll have her loop you in if she uncovers anything helpful to the case.”
“Appreciate it,” Masterson said gruffly. “I’ll keep you updated.”
Wyatt thanked the man, then ended the call.
A logging truck rumbled past. Two minivans and an SUV zipped along close behind it. All three of the drivers jockeyed to be in position to overtake the larger vehicle, all too aware once they got past Clinton and started climbing into the hills, the highway would narrow to a single lane in each direction. When they hit the switchbacks, there would only be the occasional passing lane made available for traffic relief. He’d be stuck behind them all.
He was already so far behind.
Who was hacking into Cara Beckett’s accounts? Who disliked a woman who swore by gratitude journals and daily meditation enough to terrorize her? Chase her from her home? Kidnap her in broad daylight?
“Why would he leave everything?”
Her tremulous question broke into his thoughts. He turned to face her, but when his eyes met hers, he could see she already knew the answer. Robbery was never the intent.
This time, she spoke in little more than a whisper. “Why does someone want to hurt me?”
“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “But I promise I’m going to do my best to figure out who it is and stop them.”
Understanding arced like an electric current between them. But she didn’t reach for his phone. Instead, she held his gaze so long he had to jerk his attention back to the road.
“Do you mind if we stop and get a coffee before we head for my parents’ house?” she asked. “I’d like a moment to...collect my thoughts.”
Wyatt nodded and checked their location against the GPS. “I know exactly the place.” Hitting his blinker, he craned his neck to check traffic. A rooster tail of grit and dust rose behind them as he steered the SUV back onto the highway.