Melinda set to work. The way her body was humming, she wouldn’t be sleeping. If she found something incriminating, if the twins were responsible for the malware? Manchu jumpedonto her lap, butting his head against her chin. Then she’d take Manchu and run. Warn her client, and hunker down somewhere. Give herself a new identity. Start again. She’d done it once. With her mother gone, there’d been no reason to stay at home. She was older now, more experienced. And this time, she wouldn’t be starting with nothing.
If the malware came from someone else? If the twins were nothing more sinister than new neighbors? Her body lit up at the memory of their mouths, their hands on her. Melinda checked the security feed. Guests were leaving the party. Pierre stood in the doorway with Mr. Patel. The old man said his goodbyes, crossed the hall and disappeared into his apartment. Louis joined Pierre, leaning on the door frame. They both looked up, staring straight at the camera. Straight at her. Melinda caught her breath and held it, unable to look away. How she wanted it tonotbe them. Her body especially. But they were too aware of the security cameras for them to not be up to something. Aware like she was. Like a hacker.
Melinda turned off the screen with the security feed, blanking out the distraction. She had work to do. She was going to crack their hidden SSID, find their IP address and dig into Wolf Enterprises. Pin these men down. Melinda would have her answers. When she was done, she’d know everything there was to know about them, right down to their shoe size.
It was an hour later, deep into her search, that Melinda remembered Louis’ words.
“Hush, my little pirate informatique. We don’t want the neighbors to hear.”
Pirate informatique. She didn’t speak French, but it didn’t take a genius to figure it out. Had she misunderstood? Misheard? She didn’t think so. Pierre had growled at Louis, annoyed. It was a slip of the tongue. Something he’d said in the heat of the moment.
They knew she was a hacker.
Chapter Eight
Melinda jerked awake, blinking, the imprint of her keyboard on her cheek. Yawning and stretching, she checked the time on her phone. Three a.m. She’d fallen asleep working at her computers. Manchu had long since abandoned her for somewhere more comfortable—most likely the sofa or her bed—and her tea had gone cold. She logged back into her screens. The twins, so far, were evading her. Maybe she was losing her touch.
The screen with the security feed remained blank, and she resisted the urge to turn it back on, to review the footage of Louis and Pierre. Pierre’s smug smile, Louis’ wink. Their taut asses. She checked for messages. No response from her client. Had MysticMage not read it yet? She did the calculations in her head. With the time difference, it should be about seven Saturday evening in San Francisco.
MysticMage wasn’t as smart as she thought she was. Many dark web users weren’t. Maybe she was a first-time user. Melinda wasn’t, and it never hurt to know as much about a client as you could. Such information could come in handy. What a woman living in San Francisco wanted with a British identity wasn’t for her to question. Perhaps she was planning to flee the States.
An unfamiliar noise had her snapping her attention toward the door. Manchu? Melinda froze. There it was again. Whatwasthat? She switched on the screen with her security feed. A blank screen greeted her. Tension skittered across the back of her neck. Softly tapping on the keyboard, she brought up thesecurity log. Ten minutes ago, the feed had stopped. Melinda had lived in this building for three years. Not once had this happened. Someone had cut the feed. Someone was in the building, and they didn’t want their faces on camera.
She checked her phone. No notifications her alarm was down. It was closed circuit. Nothing wireless for her. She knew how easily they could be hacked. If someone had tried to cut the wires, the backup battery would have kicked in, and a notification would’ve been sent to her phone.
She checked her phone again. Nothing.Wait. Her lungs seized.No signal.Shit.They’d jammed the signal.
Another noise, coming from her living room. Someone was in her apartment. The twins?
Galvanized into action, Melinda was out of her chair, tiptoeing to the open door of her office and pressing it closed, wincing at the click as she engaged the deadlock. She debated resetting the alarm. They’d breached the one on her front door. They could do the same with this one. She set it anyway, the small beeps loud in the silence. If they weren’t expecting a second alarm, if they tripped it, it would wake all her neighbors on this floor, including Mr. Patel.
With a flick of the light switch, the room darkened, the only light coming from her screens. No time to turn them off, or rip out her hard drives. She grabbed her laptop. There were only so many places in here she could hide. She ducked into the small built-in wardrobe, pushing behind her winter coats, and slid the door shut, leaving it open a bare sliver, and waited, her hands shaking and her whole body on high alert.
She’d been here before, many times. The angry voice of her father and the desperate pleas of her mother echoed in her memories. The closet had been smaller. So had she. But the terror was the same. That help would come too late. She flipped her laptop open, adjusting the brightness of the screen. Herfingers hovered over the keyboard. Back then, she’d called the police. She couldn’t do that now. Not with the evidence they’d find on her computers.
Ambulance? Firefighters? They’d bring the police, too. Joe, the advertising guy across the hall? Never had Melinda regretted the solitary life she’d chosen. She did now.
The door knob squeaked, but the door didn’t open.
God, she hoped Manchu was okay. That he’d hid under her bed, or behind the sofa.
The knob jiggled again, louder this time. Whoever it was had to know she was in here. A thud hit the door, a shoulder or a boot—all attempts at stealth gone. The door shuddered, but didn’t open. They weren’t even going to bother with picking the lock this time. Another thud. The wood splintered and the door burst open, slamming against the wall. A piercing wail ripped through the air, followed by loud cursing. In English. With a British accent. Not the twins. Her relief was short-lived as a large figure silhouetted by the blueish light of her screens moved in front of the cupboard door. If not the twins, then who the hell was in her apartment?
Melinda closed her laptop and shrank back into the corner of the built-in. A loud crashing and banging had her cringing. Her screens? Her computers? This was no burglar. This was a deliberate attack on her and the knowledge she had stored on her hard drives. About one of her clients? Thedamnmalware.
MysticMage.Oh, God.Melinda hoped she was safe. That she’d received her warning in time.
Over the wail of her alarm, the sounds of destruction went on. Melinda wanted to close her eyes and put her hands over her ears, like she’d done as a child, and cower until it was all over. She clutched her laptop to her chest, resisting the impulse.
The closet door slid open. A brush of cool air and then a beam of red flickered up her chest, over her chin and settled above her eyes.
This was not her father she was hiding from, and the police weren’t coming to save her. No one was.
* * * *
Louis collided with Pierre in the living room, the wail of an alarm blaring through the building, almost loud enough to make his ears bleed.
Melinda.
