Page 55 of What You left in Me

Password. Two-factor authentication. The process is as annoying as it is necessary. I’ve found that out the hard way.

I’ve only just logged in when my inbox detonates. I scroll past them like an adult ignoring toddlers yelling for attention. Instead, I click my way to the folder Eric sent me this morning.

Julian’s folder waits on the desktop, tagged with a discreet color like a bruise you pretend isn’t there. I click into it. Eric’s guy’s done a hell of a job scraping together a dossier in record-time: I’ve got everything from details on Julian’s credit and assets to his corporate filings, soft profiles, charity circuits, and any other details that make up the usual pack of public breadcrumbs you can follow blindfolded.

I read until my eyes are dry and scratchy. It doesn’t help that the man is far from the most interesting subject to study. He’s fucking predictable, for one. With tastes you can forecast just from looking at how he presents himself to the world. He is careful where it costs him nothing, and cheap where it counts. There’s a line item for everything except a soul. Nothing bloody. Nothing hot. Not even a rumor I can feed.

“Look at you,” I say to the screen, and the screen looks back like it has all day. “You fucking saint.”

Intel, intel, intel. Useless. I want a seam to pry open, a crack to pour acid in. There’s nothing to sink teeth into, and the part of me that solves problems by breaking them starts pacing inside my ribs.

Fine. If there’s nothing to destroy, I could always make up something.

Thoughtfully, I parse my way through my contacts until I choose one. My thumb hovers for a second before I’ve made my choice. And then, the phone is ringing.

It only rings twice before a voice sounds on the other end of the line.

“Hello?” The voice is young, or maybe just undercooked. Background hum says small room, big fan, wired nerves.

“This is Finn.” I don’t add a last name. If he needs one, Eric gave the wrong number.

Silence. A click. His next word comes tighter, like he rolled his chair up to a desk and decided to sit upright. “Right. Uh, okay. Hi.”

“Is there a reason you sound like you just shoplifted gum?” I ask.

“Because I like not being indicted?” he tries. “Eric said you might call. He also said… never mind.”

“What did he say.”

“That you’re a guy who doesn’t do small asks.”

“Then this will be a surprise.” I take a breath like I’m bored, not plotting arson. “I need fabricated threads. Believable. Messages between Julian Hartford and someone else. Flirty. Stupid. Enough to hurt.”

A beat, then: “I don’t do frame-jobs,” he says, words stacking like he practiced them. “No offense. I’m more ‘find what’s actually there.’ Backups. Sync leaks. Cloud misconfigs. I have… standards.”

“You have hobbies,” I say. “Congratulations. I need the thing I asked for.”

He laughs. It sounds like a cough that got lost. “Man, this is not a prank call, right? Because what you just said is illegal as… well, illegal. Reckless. Dangerous. Like, prison-adjacent.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Do it. I don’t give a fuck.”

“Okay, see, when I say ‘dangerous,’ that’s your cue to reevaluate. There are laws. People with badges. My mom. I like my mom. And freedom. And sleeping. You’re asking me to fabricate evidence. That’s—”

“I’m asking you to make convincing screenshots,” I cut in. “Fake words on a glowing rectangle. Not a coup. Not a bank. Calm down.”

“Convincing to whom?” he asks, still fighting. “Because if you want it to stand up on the open internet for more than ten minutes, that’s a whole other—”

“It doesn’t need to stand up on the open internet,” I say, and I hear my own voice flatten into something cold and venomous. “It needs to stand up to one person’s eyes. That’s all.”

He goes quiet. “Right,” he says finally. “So, this is personal.”

“It’s leverage.”

“Same church, different pew.” He mutters something that sounds like math or prayer. “What’s the endgame? You trying to get this Julian guy fired? Divorced before he marries? Shot into the sun?”

“If I wanted the sun, I’d buy it. Focus.”

“I am focused.” He is not. He is breathing like a rabbit. “I’ve seen your name around. You’re… no offense…intense, dude. And this is the kind of intense that, um, gets you headlines. ‘Local tech guy’s pet nerd forges…’”