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My mouth goes bone dry, and my palms nearly shower the floor like a set of sprinklers. I don’t think I’ve ever been so uncomfortable, confused, and utterly intrigued in my life.
“Ten grand upfront. It’s nothing illegal. Well, not really. You’re not walking into a trap. My grandson has this enormous head, and his bubble needs a little bursting. He needs to be shown that this new security program he’s got going is only going to land him in a heap of trouble. He hasn’t marketed it yet, but he thinks it’s fail-proof. You need to show him he’s wrong before he puts this thing on the market, and it turns into a class-action lawsuit or worse—someone does get hurt. He’s installed it in his own home as a test run, but I want you to hack it, get in there, and steal this necklace. It will be in the bottom drawer of the tall dresser in his bedroom. I’ll put it in there tomorrow night when I go over for dinner. Anytime after that, within the next three days, works for me. I want proof that you have it, a photo of yourself holding it. I want you to keep it as evidence, so I can prove to him that he has some major room for improvement.”
“Don’t we all,” I say dryly, just to cover up the fact that I’m kind of freaking out inside. No one has ever asked me to do anything like this. It feels…off. It feels like a trap, and it feels wrong. It is also illegal, no matter what this lady is saying. If I get caught, I doubt she’ll bail my ass out of jail.
“I’ll give you another thirty thousand when the job’s done and when you give me proof of the photo,” Helen goes on.
My jaw drops. Forty grand is a lot of money. “Uh, forty k? Really?”
“You think my grandson’s wellbeing, his life, his company, and our family name isn’t worth all that to me? He’ll lose a lot more than forty grand if there’s a big lawsuit about his defunct security software. So, what’s it going to be? Will you take the job or not?”
“Uh, let’s see the money first.” There’s no way I’m falling for this. It strikes me, too late, that I basically just agreed to accept a bribe, and if this old lady is wearing a wire, I’m officially fucked.
Today isn’t my day, and when Helen rolls her eyes, I know I’m safe. I breathe out a massive sigh of relief, even though I’d like to stand there all stoic and pretend I’m not the least bit rattled.
“You’re plucky. I like that.” She whips out a phone from somewhere in her pantsuit. “I don’t carry ten grand around in cash. That’s just asking to get rolled.” I can’t believe she just said the word rolled. “I’ll transfer the money right now.” She types a few numbers into her phone, presses her thumb to the screen, and then trustingly passes it over to me. “Put your info in there.”
I have many accounts because I’m not normally as stupid as I’m being tonight. I think fast and type in the number for the newest one. I also have a very, very sharp memory, and it’s no problem for me to put one long-ass number in.
Helen turns her phone away, presses a few more times, taps once, and then holds the confirmation screen out for me to see. “I’m looking forward to working with you, Miss Hawthorne.”
She knows my name. Of course, she knows my name. She lets that liner sink as she shows herself out. Because I might be bad, but I’m not terrible, I watch to make sure she gets back to her car okay. She does. Then, I lock the door, setting all three locks back in place.
I make sure the security system is working perfectly, then rush to the back bedroom where I keep my favorite laptop, Betty Sue. I fire her up, and within twenty minutes, I have everything I need. The lady said her name was Helen Cromwell. She made it easy on me. Maybe too easy. It’s not hard to find someone online, especially when they’re rich and famous, and this lady, surprise surprise, is both. Rich people are kind of strange. They have enough money to do anything. This suddenly makes more sense. She’s rich, and she wants to hit her grandson where it hurts to get him to listen to her before he makes a huge mistake. She’s also not afraid to throw money around to do it because she has oodles of it. She’s a big newspaper, magazine, and online baron. Can you call a woman a baron? A baroness? Tycoon-ness? Anyway, she’s loaded.
But that’s not the end of the story. From there, I found her grandchildren. There are five of them. Four boys, one girl—poor soul. Two brothers in one family, and then two brothers and a sister in another. Their fathers ran off, both to Europe when they were young. The ex-wives never remarried. The family unit is close, or so says the internet. I believe it, based on the fact that the grandmother throws money around like dust on the wind, just to make sure her grandson is okay.
