Prologue
ANONYMOUS
Do you know how frustrating it is to trust someone, to let someone be your final hope, to believe you might befriendswith them, only for them to turn out to be a fake?
I don’t know why I’m surprised. Everyone,everyone, has let me down.
When I die, there will be no headstone. No funeral. Forgotten.
I used to think kindness was genetic. That bad people were born bad, and good people were destined to be that way from birth. But now I see that I was so wrong, because I have watched myself decay from a bright-eyed, hopeful child to a hollow, bitter adult who wants nothing but bad things for others.
At the kitchen table, rotting with damp like the rest of the motel, I stare at my phone. At the blurry photo of two figures standing over a dying man, a man who deserved to die.
They all deserve to die. The girl, the lecturer, the businessmen. Every single one of them deserves to die.
I swipe from my photos to my messages. Finding out Ophelia Winters had a stalker was not surprising. She seems to gather enemies so effortlessly that it’s almost admirable.
Two days, and my message to her is still unanswered. I stare out the window, but the view is obscured by the rain, deafeningly loud.
My laptop chimes with a notification from an encrypted messaging site.
Anon
I have confirmation she’s back at the university.
Her silence is my answer. If she doesn’t want to come to me, we’ll have to do it the hard way.
Anon
I’m finished here. Any other jobs require further payment.
I bark out a cold laugh, my breath white in front of me. I couldn’t pay another hacker even if I wanted to. Everything is gone. House, jewelry, cash. Family, hopes, dreams. All gone.
I’m done with this life. Ready to leave.
But leaving without watching that Winters girl begging for her life, begging for forgiveness? Absolutely not.
Chapter 1
ALEX
[DRAFT]
From:Alex Corbeau-Green
Subject:Consumerism (noun) the selfish and frivolous collecting of products
To:Ophelia Winters
An interactive billboard has appeared outside my office building. You’d hate that. Advertisements and forced interaction - your two least favorite things. I can already picture the expression on your face.
Fuck, I miss you.
“ARE YOU AIDINGthe cops in their search for your father, Alex?”
“Are you polishing your head to make it that shiny, Andre, or is it natural?” I bite back, as the reporter desperately follows me toward the ground floor entrance of Green Aviation’s office building for what must be the tenth time in two weeks.
My cigarette hisses against the trash can outside. The flash of a camera somewhere behind me has me gritting my teeth.
