It’s Good To Have Friends In High Places
IT'S GOOD TO HAVE FRIENDS IN HIGH PLACES
KENT
I’m at the desk, elbows braced on the green blotter, toying with my glass snifter.
Most days I’d be reading journal articles or catching up on my patient notes, but there’s no point.
I keep looking at the phone, which hasn’t made a sound in an hour, as if it can sense my mood and is giving me time to get mean about it.
On the shelf by the window there’s a stack of old textbooks, every one of them tabbed and dog-eared—reminders of who I was before all this. Beside the books sits a brass photo frame. I flip it down. Don’t need the picture of Jeannine staring at me right now, not with what’s about to drop.
The phone buzzes. A single, clipped tremor, nothing more.
Caller ID: Nate Remington.
I stare at the name for a second. I know what the call is, but I let it buzz one more time, just to show who’s in charge.
When I answer, there’s a moment of total silence, then the faint hiss of servers running in the background.
Nate Remington is what you’d get if you stripped out every ounce of softness from the modern Silicon Valley male and replaced it with carbon fiber and a total disregard for boundaries.
Last I heard he was benching close to four plates for reps and dating a pair of twin influencers, which is the kind of stunt you can pull off if you’ve got a yacht, a net worth in the billions, and a face like an angry Greek god.
But I don’t give a shit about any of that.
Nate’s a bud from way back, and he’s here to help me out.
The line clicks, a millisecond lag, then: “Dude. You wanted results. I got them.”
His voice is glass—no fat, no warmth, just the pure velocity of a man who hasn’t had to slow down for anyone, ever.
“Let’s hear it,” I say. My own voice is a blade. Might as well cut to the chase after this fucking dumpster fire of a day.
A flicker of keystroke clicks behind him.
“We ran those videos through every filter I’ve got.
Traced the post’s metadata. Account is burner, but the IP jumps out.
San Jose. Comcast. Two routers, both dirty, but the hop off is unique.
Public library WiFi, but there’s a second log-in two minutes later, same device, different network. Residential.”
I close my eyes. The words are just noise until I get the address.
“Shit. You got a pinpoint address?” I say.
He snorts. “You know how this works, Kent. I don’t do half measures.” Another click, the faint sound of him spitting sunflower seeds into a Solo cup. “Three-four-three Poplar Lane, Apartment Three. You want a name or you want to guess?”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
Nate waits, then says, “Thought so. You paying rent on that place? Because if not, the lease is signed by a ‘J. Ashton,’ but the credit check is linked to your AMEX.”
My hand tightens on the mug. Knuckles go white, the familiar itch in the shoulder where the tendon’s never healed right.
He keeps going, filling the silence like it’s a contest. “Device is a MacBook, old model. User logs in as ‘jean-baby.’ I’m assuming it’s a “she” at this point.
Not a lot of security. I sent you the full dump, but here’s the interesting bit—she didn’t just upload the files.
She edited them. The deepfake app is basic, off-the-shelf, but the source material came from a university IP, and it matches a raw vid uploaded from somewhere near you in the Minneapolis area. ”
I want to ask how he knows all this, but I don’t. Nate lives for this shit. The lower the stakes, the more he cares. But this time it’s personal, and he knows it.
“Who helped her?” I say, voice flat.
“No one,” Nate says, and for the first time he sounds a little respectful. “She’s running solo. I think she was pissed off. A lot of angry Google searches, a lot of time on revenge sites. Classic scorched earth. It’s not even about the victim, honestly—it’s about the abuser.”
I set the mug down, hard enough to chip the bottom.
Nate takes the cue and winds down. “You want me to burn this Jean baby chick? I can do it. Or you can handle it yourself. Your call.”
I look up at the ceiling, the molding traced with perfect lines, the faintest whisper of a cobweb in the corner. Then I look at the phone.
“I’ll handle it,” I say.
He gives a low, impressed whistle. “Didn’t take you for the vengeful type, but all right.”
I don’t answer. The line goes quiet.
Nate finally says, “I hope you find the motherfucker who did this.”
I hang up without a word.
The quiet that settles over the study is so total it hurts.
The light from the desk lamp has gone sullen and low, flickering at the edge of brownout.
My eyes go flat. I see the chain of events, every link laid bare: the Sigma party, the raw footage, the stepdaughter I rescued, the ex-wife I failed to break.
The woman who needed to hurt me so bad that she’d torch her own blood just to leave a scar.
I’m not angry. I’m not even surprised. The only thing that surprises me is how cold I feel, right down to the center.
I sit there a while, watching the light in the room fade to a colorless gray, feeling the edge of the world close in. I don’t move. I don’t let myself move. I just count the seconds as the room gets darker and darker.
In the end, it’s not the pain that gets me. It’s the weight. It’s always the weight.
When I finally get up, my legs are stiff, my jaw locked so hard it clicks. I grab the frame from the shelf and turn it back up, the picture of Jeannine glaring through the glass like a warning.
I leave the study, phone in hand, ready for the next move.
Because the only thing worse than a mother who wants to destroy her daughter—
—is a man who’ll do anything to save her.