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The burner app I’d flagged earlier nagged at me. I dug into her recent activity, cross-referencing her number against encrypted chats.
A new thread popped up, dated last night, with a handle I didn’t recognize—ShadyLady. Vague, coded messages about a “meet” and “high stakes.”
My gut twisted. Vivi was probably with Jessa now, planning something reckless. I didn’t know what.
I set a crawler to traceShadyLady. My thoughts drifted to Vivi’s grin, sharp and wild, daring the world to break her.
The crawler needed time, so I shifted to Vivi’s family. Emmaline and their mother, the threads she’d unraveled last night, her voice cracked with their poverty’s weight.
I understood that life. Sullivan’s Island before my father’s billions, when we’d shared bikes, ate fish we caught and PB&Js made by the oldest brothers. Vivi’s words echoed:Skimping was religion.
I pulled up Emmaline’s records. Public data first. Married, Dallas, one kid named Chasten. Financials were tight—preacher husband, modest income, no savings.
Her Venmo history showed small payments to friends, labeled “groceries” or “help.” Emmaline was stretched thin, her presence at the intervention screaming desperation, not judgment.
My mind wandered to Vivi, curled in my arms last night, tears soaking my shirt. I wanted to hold her now, feel her heartbeat, promise she’d never fight alone.
But she was out there, running. I was here, digging for answers she might not want. I shook it off, focusing on her mother.
Public records were sparse. New Orleans, memory care facility, no assets. Vivi had mentioned a scam, a predator draining her mother’s savings, risking eviction.
I hacked the facility’s billing system. Overdue balance: $12,000, due by month’s end. Pocket change for a Dane, but a fortune for Vivi’s family.
I could pay it. One wire transfer, done. Cover the costs for the rest of her mother’s life. But Vivi’s pride, her fierce independence, stopped me. She’d see charity as debt, not a gift.
Her mother, from what she’d said, was the same—stubborn, surviving on grit. I needed another way.
I pulled up the scam’s details, piecing together Vivi’s words. A phone call, fake badge, wire transfer to an offshore account. Classic Social Security fraud, preying on the vulnerable.
My spiders—custom scripts for hunting—could trace it. I set them loose, targeting the account’s digital footprint, following the money through encrypted ledgers and shell companies.
The stolen sum wasn’t much. Nothing to me, everything to Vivi’s mother. I could replace it, but I wanted justice. Wanted the bastard who’d done this to bleed.
As the spiders crawled, I scrubbed a hand over my face. Vivi’s laugh haunted me, small but real, when we’d shared stories of patched jeans and hand-me-downs.
I wanted her here, body pressed to mine, voice filling this sterile suite. I pictured tomorrow—her waking in my bed, curls tangled, stealing my coffee, fire back in force.
The thought was a lifeline. A hope I’d never dared hold. But she was out there, with Jessa, chasing something “stupid, dangerous.”
I checked my phone. No messages, no calls. I could track her if I wanted, but she’d know. She’d reach out when she needed me. Until then, I’d stay busy, keep the demon at bay.
Jessa’s scan pinged. TheShadyLadyhandle linked to a dark web forum, low-level, script kiddies trading exploits. Nothing concrete, but the timing—last night, post-intervention—felt too close.
I set a deeper trace. My fingers moved faster, mind lingering on Vivi. The way she’d looked in that silk gown, breathtaking, like she belonged in my world.
I wanted to give her that—beauty, ease, a life without scrimping. But the more I dug into her family, the more I felt I was missing something.
Emmaline’s records offered no clues. Pious social media posts about faith and family, nothing hinting at the intervention’s betrayal.
I hacked her email. A thread with the facility caught my eye—Emmaline pleading for an extension, citing “unforeseen circumstances.”
No mention of the scam, but desperation was clear. Her bank statements showed a $500 withdrawal, sent to an unlisted account. A bribe? A payment?
It didn’t add up. The nagging sense of missing something grew sharper.
My spiders pinged. Initial scam results. The offshore account bounced through three jurisdictions, but a burner phone number surfaced, active in New Orleans last month.
I set a script to triangulate its activity. My thoughts drifted to Vivi’s mother, her paintings of mouthless saints, her mind slipping away.