Epilogue #2
Then Pierre arrived and made the two of us look average.
Our son ends his call.
“Grand-père is coming.”
I close my eyes.
“When?”
“Now.”
Xavier checks his watch.
“He's in Geneva.”
Pierre shrugs.
“He said helicopter.”
I look at my husband.
“No.”
Xavier smiles.
“He wants to see the proof.”
“He's bringing people.”
“Probably.”
“How many?”
Pierre thinks.
“Some Cambridge men.”
I swear in French again.
Pierre gasps theatrically.
“Maman.”
“Go find a biscuit.”
He runs.
I wait until he's out of the room.
Then I turn toward Xavier.
“Your father is turning our child into a scientific weapon.”
Xavier puts both hands around my waist.
“Our child hacked Blackwell kindergarten enrollment because he didn't like the lunch menu.”
“He wanted real cheese.”
“He was four.”
“Valid complaint.”
“You're defending him.”
“He's my son.”
I stare.
Xavier smiles.
There it is.
The dimple.
Still unfair.
Six years married and I am still susceptible to it.
Terrible.
I slide my hands around his neck.
“You know what Papa would say?”
“What?”
I look toward the window.
Afternoon sunlight stretches across the floor.
Beyond it, the French countryside rolls into the distance.
We kept the cottage.
Expanded it carefully.
Never changed the old kitchen.
Never fixed the cabinet that sticks unless you lift it.
Papa's telescope still sits in the study.
And on clear nights, Pierre takes it into the field.
The same field where I married Ghost.
I smile.
“He'd say the stars finally learned to write back.”
Xavier's expression softens.
“Probably.”
A crash sounds from somewhere down the hall.
We both turn.
Pierre calls, “I'm fine.”
I look at Xavier.
He waits.
Then:
“Do we believe him?”
“No.”
“Absolutely not.”
We start toward the hallway together.
Halfway there, Pierre runs back into the study carrying a biscuit in one hand and a tiny circuit board in the other.
“Maman.”
“Yes?”
“Can Grand-père sleep over?”
“No.”
Xavier says, “Yes.”
I turn.
“Ghost.”
“Vesper.”
Pierre looks between us.
He has learned that tone means negotiations have begun.
“Grand-père said he will bring scones.”
I hesitate.
Xavier smiles.
“Got you.”
I point at both Blackwell men.
“This family is manipulative.”
Pierre takes a bite of biscuit.
“Technically I'm half Beaumont.”
My mouth falls open.
Xavier slowly looks at me.
I point toward our son.
“That. That is you.”
“No.”
“Absolutely you.”
Pierre walks back toward his father's desk.
He climbs into Xavier's chair, adjusts it upward, puts on a pair of child-sized blue-light glasses his grandfather had custom made, and returns to his video game.
Clack-clack-clack.
I watch him.
Dark hair.
Blackwell eyes.
My stubborn mouth.
Papa's mind somewhere inside all of it.
Safe.
Loved.
Known.
No aliases.
No disguises.
No need to disappear.
My chest fills with something so enormous I still don't have a name for it.
Xavier comes up behind me and wraps both arms around my waist.
His chin rests on my hair.
“We did all right,” he murmurs.
I lean back against him.
“Our five-year-old may have just solved a problem Cambridge couldn't.”
“Minor concern.”
“He has a meeting with a semiconductor CEO next Tuesday.”
“Educational playdate.”
“He has a Swiss bank account.”
“Grandfather.”
“He asked me for root access to the house yesterday.”
Xavier pauses.
“What did you say?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“He got in anyway.”
My husband goes still.
I smile.
“There she is,” he murmurs.
“Who?”
“Your contribution.”
I turn inside his arms.
“You love it.”
“I do.”
His forehead touches mine.
Across the room, Pierre mutters something in Italian at his game.
Then his little voice rises.
“Papa?”
Xavier doesn't move away from me.
“Yes?”
“I broke your firewall.”
I bite my lip.
Xavier closes his eyes.
I whisper, “Baby genius.”
He exhales.
“I'm changing the credentials.”
Pierre calls back:
“I'll find them.”
I start laughing.
Xavier looks toward his desk.
Then down at me.
“We should be worried.”
“Very.”
He kisses me anyway.
And while our child happily dismantles his father's security behind us, I look through the windows toward the field where Papa once taught me the stars were code.
Maybe he was right.
Maybe everything is information.
Patterns.
Signals.
Connections waiting for someone clever enough to understand them.
I spent half my life trying to disappear from the world.
Then I found Ghost.
We built NULL.
We built a life.
And somehow, impossibly, we built Pierre.
Our smallest hacker.
Our greatest vulnerability.
Our best piece of code.
My husband kisses my forehead.
Behind us, another alert sounds from his computer.
Xavier sighs.
“Pierre.”
A tiny voice answers.
“Yes, Papa?”
“Out of my root directory.”
A pause.
Then:
“No.”
I smile.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
Four months later
Pierre is too quiet.
This is never good.
I know this because silence in our house generally means one of three things.
He is asleep.
He is dismantling something expensive.
Or he is somewhere on the internet he has specifically been told not to be.
Considering it is four seventeen in the afternoon and I can hear the faint click-click-click of a keyboard coming from Xavier’s study, I eliminate sleep immediately.
I stop outside the open door.
Pierre is sitting in his father’s chair.
Again.
His feet don't reach the floor, so they swing beneath him while his fingers move rapidly over the keyboard. A pair of blue-light glasses sits slightly crooked on his nose. Dark hair sticks up in the back where he has apparently been running his hands through it.
He looks exactly like Xavier when he works.
Only smaller.
And currently missing one front tooth.
I lean against the doorway.
“Pierre.”
Nothing.
“Pierre Sabine Blackwell.”
The typing stops.
Very slowly, he turns.
“Yes, Maman?”
There is innocence in his voice.
That means crime.
“What are you doing?”
“Coding.”
“What are you coding?”
His eyes flick toward the screen.
Then back to me.
“Something.”
I walk into the room.
He immediately minimizes a window.
Interesting.
“Open it.”
“No.”
I stop.
He blinks.
I blink.
Apparently my almost-six-year-old has decided today is the day we test boundaries.
“Pierre.”
“It is private.”
“Nothing involving my network is private when you're five.”
“I'll be six in nineteen days.”
“Compelling legal argument. Open it.”
He sighs dramatically and taps the keyboard.
An encrypted chat appears.
My stomach sinks.
Not NULL.
Something Pierre built himself.
Naturally.
I move closer.
“Who are you talking to?”
“Preston.”
I pause.
“Preston?”
He nods.
“Your cousin Preston?”
Another nod.
I stare at the screen.
“What does Preston want?”
Pierre's attention returns to the keyboard.
“Intel.”
Oh no.
I know that word.
Nothing good in this family has ever followed it.
“Intel on what?”
“A girl.”
I close my eyes.
Absolutely not.
From behind me, Xavier says, “Why did you just make that face?”
I turn.
My husband stands in the doorway wearing black trousers, white shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms.
He looks from me to our son.
Then to the encrypted chat.
His expression changes immediately.
“What did he do?”
“Ask him.”
Xavier walks into the room.
“Pierre.”
Our son looks up.
“Yes, Papa?”
“Who are you hacking?”
Pierre considers the wording.
“Technically, no one.”
Xavier stops beside me.
I whisper, “Your genetics.”
He ignores that.
“Pierre.”
Our child exhales.
“Lakeview Prep.”
Xavier and I groan at exactly the same time.
Pierre frowns.
“What?”
“You're hacking a school?” I ask.
“Only the student database.”
“That is not better.”
“I didn't change anything.”
Xavier folds his arms.
“Why are you inside Lakeview Prep's student database?”
Pierre looks between us as though we're being unnecessarily difficult.
“Preston needs information.”
“What information?”
“About a girl.”
Xavier closes his eyes.
I look toward the ceiling.
There it is.
Romance.
The one security threat Blackwell men never seem capable of identifying until it is already inside the perimeter.
“What girl?” I ask.
Pierre looks back at the monitor.
“He won't tell me.”
“Then what are you looking for?”
“Schedule. Classes. Clubs. Maybe her address.”
“No,” Xavier and I say together.
Pierre startles.
“Not address,” Xavier says.
“Ever,” I add.
“I wasn't going to use it.”
“You weren't going to find it,” Xavier corrects.
Pierre's brows pull together.
“But—”
“No.”
He sinks slightly into the chair.
I look at Xavier.
Xavier looks at me.
Neither of us needs to say it.
Preston Asbury has recruited our kindergarten-aged son for romantic surveillance.
I point at Xavier.
“Your family.”
“My cousin.”
“Your side.”
“You taught Pierre to bypass school firewalls.”
“For educational purposes.”
“How is that different?”
“Intent.”
Pierre raises one finger.
“I have intent.”
“Not helping,” we say together.
He lowers it.
Xavier pulls out his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling Preston.”
I smile.
Good.
This I want to hear.
The call connects after two rings.
A male voice answers.
“X?”