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Izzy

I could sneak a peek when he’s in the shower, but I’d have to follow him into the bathroom. No thanks. It’s so frustrating, I want to scream. How could I be so close, yet still a world away?

All hope feels lost, but then an idea occurs to me. People often use the same password for their various devices, so even if I can’t get to David’s phone, I might still be able to access whatever secrets he keeps on his computer.

He is out on the deck with Julia, engaged in what looks like a pretty intense conversation.

This could be my chance. I’m grateful I’ve got my nanny world under control.

One good thing about a sugar rush is that, after the high, comes the crash.

I’ve never had an easier time putting Becca and Brody to bed.

Both were sound asleep before I read the last page of Frog and Toad Are Friends.

I head up to David’s office on the third floor, quiet as a thief, to have a look.

Fear ratchets up inside me. I try to slow myself down. When I’m this revved up, I can easily make stupid, impulsive decisions. I must be careful. I hear my mother’s worried voice banging in my head like a drum. He’ll catch you. He’ll hurt you. You’ll be the next Susie Welch.

I remind myself of the promise I made to end my family’s generational trauma once and for all. Which is why, before I know it, I’m lurking about in his private sanctuary. With David on the deck below, I should be safe to turn on the lights—for a minute.

The office is spacious, neat, and off-limits to the children.

In the center of the room is a fancy rug resembling a multicolored abstract painting.

It’s not my taste, but not much is in this house.

There’s little wall space designated for books, even less for pictures, but the ones he’s chosen to hang are all nature photographs.

I’m most fond of the flying owl swooping across a golden meadow.

David’s desk is like a big modern sculpture.

The top is a large piece of glass (surprise, surprise) supported on thick, angled legs made of sleek black metal.

It’s uncluttered—no random piles of papers like my mom’s desk at home.

It’s basically a huge surface area to hold a large display monitor connected to an external keyboard, a wireless mouse, and a laptop computer propped open on a metal stand.

A mug on the desk advertises the electronic components company that made David rich, but apparently not rich enough to shut down the talent scout business. Or maybe he just likes having a convincing pickup line for women, like when he tried to recruit me.

Every fiber of my being tells me to go. But I’m also stupidly stubborn. The computer monitor shows a black screen. I move the mouse an inch and watch the display spark to life. The desktop image is of a snowcapped mountain—more generic nature images for David. I’m prompted to enter a passcode.

Adrenaline floods my body, and I’m hyperaware of my surroundings, hearing phantom sounds like footsteps and breathing right behind me.

My legs shake. My palms are sweaty. It’s like I’m having a spontaneous anaphylactic reaction.

My windpipe constricts as my skin gets all prickly.

Every breath feels like a small victory, a lifeline.

Will this work? It’s a long shot, but I have to try something. I enter the numbers Lucas recorded: 585429.

And… holy shit —it works.

But I immediately regret it. I might not know exactly what David does for work, but I’m now painfully aware of what he likes to do in his free time, and all I can say is “Ewww.”

What greets my eyes on his massive high-resolution computer monitor is a web page filled with box after box, row upon row, of pornography. We’re talking a whole lotta porn, with all the moves on display in small preview windows.

It’s not like I haven’t seen fleshy entanglements before.

In this day and age, you can’t avoid it.

It’s not my thing, but I do understand that without sex, none of us would be here, and I’m ready to put this unfortunate discovery into the same category as David’s taste in furnishings—to each their own.

According to the cheesy graphic in the top right corner, the name of the website is All Access Sex, and it claims to be the hottest amateur porn hub on the internet.

Upon closer inspection, the “amateur” part appears to be indisputably accurate.

David’s affinity for high-end products apparently has its limits.

The videos are poorly lit, the people look like regular folks, nobody is airbrushed, and certainly none of them are porn stars.

I had no idea this sort of thing was a fetish, but evidently it is, and my boss is into it.

I want to scrub my eyeballs and brain, but no can do.

However, my success emboldens me. I glance over my shoulder to ensure the coast is clear before using the mouse to minimize the sordid web page.

I now know where he keeps his “piles of paper,” as his desktop is littered with digital files and folders.

All his documents are sorted by type, with handy labels beneath the icons for easy identification.

One digital pile is for Documents, another holds his PDFs, and there’s one for Movies, but the collection that catches my eye is the one labeled Spreadsheets.

Since David is so fixated on money, perhaps I’ll find something worthwhile hiding in numbers, not letters.

I click on the spreadsheet icon, which expands into a bunch of individual files.

I scan the titles. Most of them are meaningless to me, but the one that draws my interest is named AAS-PL, and it’s dated recently.

I hearken back to an Accounting 101 class I took to satisfy my math requirement as a freshman, and note it’s finally paying off in real life.

PL could stand for profit and loss, and that makes this document of keen interest.

I open the Excel file and see a simple accounting spreadsheet delineating revenue, overhead, and profits by month. The revenue is broken out into credit card types, and the expense section includes subcategories for hosting, content, and payroll.

It seems legit enough, but I soon make another connection. The subtotal line is labeled AAS Profit/Loss, which matches the name of the file, but it could also be an abbreviation for All Access Sex.

I’m wondering if David’s not just a visitor to the amateur porn website, but its purveyor. Could his talent scout business be a front for a different type of venture? Filming people doing what nature intended isn’t exactly “talent,” but whatever…

Instinctively, I snap a picture of his accounting log with my phone and return to digging.

There are other spreadsheets with more cryptic names, and perhaps there are other websites David the Pornographer owns.

But before I can start looking, my ears pick up the sound of footsteps, and this time, I’m sure it’s not my imagination playing tricks on me.

With a quick mouse draw and fast fingers, I have just enough time to quit Excel and hit the lock screen command before I hear a voice behind me.

It’s David, and he sounds pissed. “What are you doing in here?” he growls from the doorway.

I whirl to face him, but my mind goes blank. His stare bores into me from across the room. I open my mouth to speak, to explain myself, but no words come out. I’m busted— big-time .

David approaches, and judging by his expression, my punishment is going to be severe.