Chapter 3
GHOST
She didn't look like her profile pictures.
No filters. No perfect lighting. No carefully curated backdrop.
Just a woman in worn leggings and an oversized Northwestern University sweatshirt, blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, no makeup. Wide blue eyes currently showing something between fear and defiance.
More real than I'd expected.
"Can I come in?" I asked, though it wasn't really a question.
She hesitated, one hand still gripping the door like a shield. Smart. She didn't know me. Shouldn't trust me.
"I think we can talk right here," she replied, voice steadier than her pulse, which I could see fluttering at her neck.
I removed my sunglasses, meeting her eyes directly. "This conversation requires privacy. Your neighbors don't need to hear it."
Her gaze flicked to my cut, to the knife hilt visible at my boot, then back to my face. Assessing risks. Computing options.
"Fine," she finally said, stepping back. "But I've got pepper spray and I've already texted your photo to a friend."
Lie. Her phone was on the counter behind her. But I respected the attempt.
I stepped inside, scanning the apartment automatically. Single exit through the front door. Fire escape accessible through bedroom window. Security system non-existent. Smoke detector outdated.
And then the incongruity registered. One corner—the one visible in her photos—was picture-perfect rural chic. The rest was clearly budget basic. Digital illusion versus analog reality.
She closed the door but didn't lock it. Another smart move.
"So," she said, crossing her arms. "You're here about my Instagram posts?"
"Delete them," I stated flatly. "All content featuring the club. Now."
Her eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?"
"The engagement party photos. Videos. Any content showing club members, patches, or the clubhouse interior. Delete them immediately."
She blinked, then squared her shoulders. "Look, I understand you guys probably value your privacy, but I was invited to that party. Sophie said photos were fine."
"Sophie doesn't handle club security," I countered. "I do."
Recognition flickered across her face. "You're Ghost. The tech guy."
That surprised me. Most civilians didn't know member specifics.
"Sophie mentioned you," she continued, her stance relaxing slightly. "Said you practically live in the basement with your computers."
I ignored that. "Your posts violated club security protocols. Created digital footprints that can be tracked, archived, and used against us."
"They're just party photos," she argued. "People celebrating an engagement."
"People with enemies," I corrected. "The clubhouse location, interior layout, faces, security camera positions—all now accessible to fourteen thousand strangers."
"Fourteen thousand seven hundred and twenty-two," she corrected automatically. "And they're not strangers. They're my audience."
Jesus Christ. She actually believed that.
"Your 'audience' includes rival clubs, law enforcement, and anyone with a grudge against Broken Throttle," I explained, keeping my voice level despite mounting frustration. "One post from you saved them months of surveillance."
That landed. I could see the realization hit her.
"I didn't think—"
"Clearly," I interrupted. "Now delete the posts. All of them."
She reached for her phone, then hesitated. "Those posts have the highest engagement I've ever had. They're driving traffic to my sponsors. Bringing in income I need."
"Not my problem."
Her eyes flashed. "Easy for you to say. You're not trying to pay medical bills with hashtags and affiliate links."
That caught me off guard. Not the content, but the raw emotion behind it—frustration tinged with genuine worry.
I pushed it aside. "Delete them now, or I'll hack your accounts and do it myself. Along with implementing security measures you won't appreciate."
Her mouth dropped open. "That's illegal!"
I just stared at her.
"Right," she muttered. "Motorcycle club. Probably not your biggest concern."
She grabbed her phone, fingers moving across the screen. I stepped closer, needing visual confirmation.
"I need to see."
"Seriously?" she huffed, but turned the phone toward me.
I watched as she navigated to each post, deleted them one by one. Six total. More than I'd initially found.
"All accounts," I instructed. "Instagram. Facebook. Twitter."
"It's X now," she corrected absently, switching apps.
"Whatever," I muttered.
When she finished, I held out my hand. "Phone."
Her grip tightened on the device. "Absolutely not."
"I need to verify deletion from the server, not just the front end. Check metadata. Ensure there's no scheduling of archived content."
"That's private," she objected. "My entire business is on here."
"Your 'business' just compromised my club's security," I countered. "Phone. Now."
We locked eyes in silent battle. Most people looked away from me within seconds. She held for nearly thirty.
"Fine," she finally said, voice clipped. "But you do it right here where I can see everything you're doing."
Fair enough. I took the phone, fingers moving through security checks with practiced efficiency. Cloud storage. Scheduled posts. Archived content. Backup apps.
"You have copies in your camera roll," I noted, finding the originals.
"Those aren't posted anywhere," she argued.
"Delete them."
"Are you kidding me? Those are my personal photos!"
I looked up, holding her gaze. "Those photos could put civilians in danger if the wrong people find them. Club members have families. Children. Partners with no connection to club business. Your 'content' makes them targets."
That hit home. Her expression shifted from indignation to genuine concern.
"I didn't realize," she said quietly.
"Most don't," I acknowledged, my tone softening slightly. "But that doesn't change the risk."
After a moment, she nodded. "Delete them."
I did, then ran a final check before handing the phone back. "If these resurface anywhere, we'll have a different conversation."
She took the phone, cradling it like an extension of herself. Which, for someone like her, it probably was.
"Is that it? Are we done?" she asked, a hint of defiance returning.
I should have said yes. Should have walked out and returned to my digital domain. Mission accomplished. Security restored.
Instead, I found myself asking, "The medical bills. That part true?"
Surprise flickered across her face. "Yes. My dad. Heart condition."
I nodded once, processing. Not relevant to the security breach. Not my business. Not my problem.
"Make better content choices," I advised, moving toward the door. "There's plenty in Riverdale worth posting that doesn't compromise safety."
Her laugh was sudden and bitter. "Says the guy who probably hasn't posted on social media in his life."
True, but irrelevant.
I reached for the door, mission complete, unexpected interaction concluded.
"I'm sorry," she said suddenly. "About the security risk. I really didn't know."
The sincerity in her voice made me turn back.
"Now you do," I replied.
As I stepped into the hallway, returning sunglasses to my face, I heard her call after me.
"Does this mean I'm banned from the next party too?"
I didn't bother answering. Some questions didn't deserve responses.
But as I headed for my bike, I found myself adding a reminder to check her accounts again tomorrow. Just to be sure.
Security protocols. Nothing more.