Chapter Four
Robby
A goddamn week since Appa Montgomery had slipped and liked Rook’s video with that blue check next to her name. A week of pacing, rubbing my temples, and thinking at all hours of the night.
What do I do now?
If she wants the fantasy of Rook to come to life, I can make that happen. But how without scaring her off and going to jail? Best-case scenario: She’s hooked. Worst-case scenario: I’m cooked…and calling my big-shot lawyer uncle in San Diego to get my ass out of jail.
My new Rook video is a good way to gauge where her head is.
It’s a standard video for me: Shirtless in my signature dim lighting, and I reach out toward the camera.
The caption reads: ‘If you want it, don’t say a word and leave the lights off.
’ It should serve as a decent test. I realize that liking a post—a fantasy—online is one thing; to have an intruder is another.
And she’s a Southern girl. I wouldn’t put it past her dad to love his Second Amendment and to have given her gun lessons or, at the very least, mace.
But if I caught her off guard, it’s not like she would carry a handgun around on a quiet weeknight.
I mean, she could, though.
That’s a terrifying thought that makes me bounce my knee with jitters.
If I prove that I’m not a random guy with bad intentions, and she sees the real Rook, she’ll be into it.
Most likely. I have nothing to lose at this point.
I’ve been dreaming and fantasizing about this girl for years, and she’s been doing the same about me.
This needs to happen, Robby.
If I’m going to be an idiot and bring Rook to her, I need her address. My chest caves in. And a backup plan to be my literal ‘get out of jail free’ card.
I’ve never allowed myself to dig into her private information because I thought if I knew her address, I would have found a way to bump into her, but I couldn’t force fate.
If she came back into my life organically, I would know it was meant to be.
But of all the many male content creators she could follow, she follows mine and interacts regularly.
You going to tell me that’s not fate?
Firing up my personal laptop, I knew finding her address shouldn’t be hard.
She did renovations a while back that she thoroughly documented online, naturally, so she must own her current house, which means her name is tied to it.
Her last name isn’t publicly listed on any of her public profiles since she went viral and became popular.
But I searched the student directory for her those years ago and know her last name.
The air conditioner kicks on then and makes me jump as it breaks the silence.
I know it’s wrong, but I have to do this.
Apple Montgomery.
No results.
Nothing on the county recorder with her name.
I dance my fingertips on the keyboard light enough not to type but still make a faint clicking noise on the keys while I think.
I bet someone else’s name is on everything, or it’s listed under an LLC to protect her privacy.
Which is clever of her, and I can respect that.
A grin flashes on my lips. I’ll outsmart her.
I remember seeing Savannah tagged in her old posts from when she was in high school, so let’s start there. I search her surname and Georgia, then narrow the search to Savannah.
Bingo.
Her dad is a bigwig at his company. It doesn’t matter what the company does.
What does is that I have a different name and a business to look for.
And her daddy’s name is stamped all over her house documents with the Orange County recorder.
I look out the window above my desk that overlooks LA.
The sun has set with the lights of the metroplex glinting like a circuit board.
I knew I’d find you, Appa.
I look up her address on real estate websites, looking for MLS photos to prove the address is current.
All the recent listings for her house were removed, so I dig deep.
After multiple searches and results pages, I eventually find photos and a floor plan on an old listing.
A few things match up well enough that I recognize the interior of the home from recent photos she’s posted.
I switch to street view to look up the current state of the house, zooming in until the pixels blur, seeking a potential weak point or cameras. My eyes are straining from hours spent staring at a computer screen today, but I’m in too deep now.
Thank you, street view guy, for recently driving down her street in Calabasas.
That’s when I see it. A smart electrical panel just like the one I have on my house. Likely the same model and age. My fingertips scratch the scruff on my jaw.
That’s fucking fate.
When I bought my house, it needed work, and I liked the Wi-Fi tie-in as a selling point for upgrading the panel.
Smug doesn’t cover how I feel with this discovery.
One of my first homeowner decisions is a way into Appa’s house.
These days, everyone has smart doorbells, door locks, cameras—all connected to Wi-Fi, powered through a router and electricity.
I’m not a hacker, but I can figure this out with my background.
And it’s fucking sweet I can test it on my house before ever trying anything with Appa’s.
But any hacker could do this if they put it together like I have.
Goosebumps rise on my arms, and my shoulders sink.
I’m not worried about potentially intruding in her home, but that someone else with truly sinister intentions could.
Appa’s a small person with no idea just how vulnerable her home security is.
If I find a way to do this, I’ll be doing her a favor.
She’ll realize that she needs to button up her security in response, and she’ll be safer in the long run.
Not that a judge would care if it goes sideways.
One of my work buddies once mentioned a ‘back-door search engine’ for smart devices. I used it to secure my smart home devices once I knew where to look. Consumers like Appa would have no idea. Unless she had a tech-savvy boyfriend, which I doubt, and she didn’t study engineering like I did.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. I need to try hacking my smart panel to see if that’s a viable option. I glance at the time in the screen’s corner. Nearly eleven. At this rate, I’ll spend all night doing this, and the time on my laptop blurs.
It’s not difficult to get into the smart panel system.
She probably didn’t change the credentials.
The only devices people reset factory passwords on are Wi-Fi routers.
I just have to find the IP of hers and try logging in with factory credentials.
I lean back and tap my fingers together like I did in a recent Rook video.
Easy.
But her neighbors likely have camera devices too. It wouldn’t be hard to do a targeted jammer for her street. No one would think twice if their internet cut out for a few minutes. Only she would.
Fuck, I have to go to bed.
My mouse clicks as I save her address and close my tabs. Criminal masterminding will have to wait until tomorrow night.
? ? ?
The workday is mundane. The same routine, same workout, same coding…
I’m buzzing during the day but still accomplish a good amount of work that I feel good about logging out by the time five p.m. rolls around.
And thanks to same-day shipping, I have a cheap router delivered at my doorstep by the time I log out.
I cut into the cardboard box and hold up my solution to any of her neighbors having Wi-Fi cameras.
Unfortunately, it’s a Rook posting day, so I’ll have to put my phone on Do Not Disturb to focus this evening. I check half an hour after my post is live to see if Appa’s burner has liked it.
As predicted, she has. Maybe Rook is part of her nightly routine.
I hope she sits there, squirming and refreshing her screen while she patiently waits for a new video.
I’m trained to check her profile all day long for story updates, new posts, new reels, and she’s not nearly as scheduled as Rook is.
After all these years, she should be trained to expect a new Rook video at five, three nights a week.
And while she’s watching Rook tonight, I’m planning on how to bring him to her like she wants.
Sitting at my desk with a salad and my nightly glass of wine, I get back to working on my grand plan.
I test the interface of my smart electrical panel and cut the power.
No warnings come through, just darkness and silence from appliances losing power.
The Wi-Fi’s down. Cameras offline. I start a timer on my phone to see how long it takes until the system overrides and turns the power on.
Appa’s panel would have a similar override that I could rely on.
Shit, new problem—how do I get into her house?
I grip the skinny stem of my wineglass between my fingertips.
I’ve accounted for turning her house pitch black and canceling out her smart devices, but I can’t just break in and cause property damage.
At this moment, I wish she had a dog. A reason for her to leave the back door unlocked or, even better, open.
But dogs can be dangerous, and I’ve never seen her post about one.
Then it clicks. She has a smart lock because of course she does.
I pull up her house again on the street view of a maps website and zoom into her front door.
I have a smart lock, but it’s the wrong brand.
Useless for testing. Looks like I’ll be making a trip to the hardware store this weekend and upgrading mine to match hers.
Thank you, Rook, for the extra income.
There’s no need to waste this evening, though. I can work on my firmware to turn this innocent router into a makeshift jammer.
If I can get this to work, here’s my grand plan:
Step One: Hack her front door lock, so the door is open for me when the power cuts the Wi-Fi. It’s possible she could have a secondary security lock on that I won’t be able to bypass from the outside. If that’s the case when I get to her door, mission aborted. I’d have to find another way to her.
It occurs to me this would all be unnecessary if I bumped into her somewhere in LA instead. But she wouldn’t remember me now. She’s seen the posts about my roommate’s death. I can’t show my face. She wants Rook and the fantasy he promises in every video. I shake my head and turn back to the plan.
Step Two: Jam her street’s internet, essentially confusing their devices like smart cameras, just for five minutes. I can mod the router to run off a simple power bank in my car.
Step Three: Hack Appa’s power panel and kill the electricity. Definitely no Wi-Fi at that point. Cameras suddenly blind to any threats.
Step Four: Find her. Make my presence known. Get the fuck out cleanly.
Note to self—put the metal barbells in my nipples.
Step Five: Post a Rook video as my ‘get out of jail free’ card.
This has gotten creepy. Even I can’t believe I’m planning a break-in for an old crush. I take the last sip of my daily fix of red wine.
I’m not waiting any longer.
I know you’re going to be scared, Appa, and Father knows I’ll need to repent my sins.
But you’ll walk away safer—with me by your side, and security that works.