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“Close your mouth,” I muttered at him. “Nobody wants to see the huge gap in your teeth.”
But as he poured himself a mug of coffee and added a huge helping of creamer, the smile didn’t fade.
“I know you and my sisterdo stuff,” I said. “But the least you could do is pretend like you don’t. Wipe that smile off your face, man.”
He slowly sipped his coffee and smacked his lips. “My grin has nothing to do with Shelly. It has to do with what I learned aboutyoulast night.”
My spoon froze halfway to my mouth. Had Jude and I made too much noise last night? This house had thick walls, but if Phil had heard us…
“I don’t have time to play games,” I snapped. “Spit it out.”
“Your Facebook profile.” He waited for me to respond, and when I didn’t, he said, “The update you made.”
“I haven’t logged into Facebook in three years,” I replied, breathing an inward sigh of relief.
Phil’s grin widened. “Yeah, well, uh, you did last night.”
Something in the tone of his voice worried me, so I pulled out my phone. I didn’t have the Facebook app installed, so I had to open a Chrome browser and login manually. But I got an error message claiming my password was incorrect.
My stomach began to sink, and I gestured at Phil. “Give me your phone. Let me see.”
My sister’s annoying boyfriend was giggling as I opened the app on his phone and went to my profile. Unlike the change I had made to Owen’s LinkedIn page, what he had done to me wasnotsubtle.
I had been tagged in a new photo. It was two photos, actually. The first one showed someone in a gray and white furry suit. Their suited ass faced the camera, with the tail up, while they looked over their shoulder in a permanent mascot grin. It looked like a husky dog.
The second photo was from the front, without The furry head. And sticking out of the furry costume wasme. It was my head, my face, myeverything.
Underneath it, the caption read: “I’m probably crossing a line by showing this side of me, but I can’t hide it anymore. I’m furry and proud.”
Crossing a line. I could still hear Owen using that exact phrase last night when he described what I had done to his LinkedIn profile. That confirmed it.
I was sharply aware of Phil staring at me, waiting for a response. “This isn’t me!” I said defensively.
“Do you have a twin sister Shelly never told me about?”
“It’s fake,” I said. “A Photoshop or something.”
“It was posted under your account,” he pointed out.
“My boss must have hacked me. He did this to get back at me!”
“Your boss? Jude Cauthon? Why would someone like him hack your account?”
“No, not him. The other one. Owen March.”
Phil snorted. “The question remains. Why would someone like him do this? If true, that is a huge violation of your privacy. Not to mention legally. He founded PayScale. He’s literally a billionaire. He has too much to risk to do something like this.”
“I don’t have time to explain everything to you.”
“How did he even hack your account?” Phil said. “Don’t you have two-factor authentication enabled?”
“I haven’t used my account in three years,” I gritted out.
“That’s even more embarrassing, then!”
My mind raced as I dumped my bowl in the sink and rinsed it out. I wasn’t telling the full truth. I did log into Facebook about two months ago, when Michelle told me about a memory that had popped up. A photo of us and dad when at the beach from a few years ago. My first thought was that the credentials must have been cached in my browser. Owen must have gotten access when he hacked my phone and PC last week.
I shook my head. That wasn’t possible. I checked all of my access during that hack. Nothing had been compromised last week. Something had changed between then and now. He must have found a way to get new access…
