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The attorney asks Hannah if any of Greg Smith’s threats were made in writing.
“No,” Hannah replies. “All threats were made during a phone call. He did send me some horrible emails after that, though. Will these help me?” She attaches them to her reply:
All you had to do was look at me and then at yourself in a mirror to know I wasn’t actually into you. I’m a personal trainer, dumbass, and you look like you’ve never been inside a fucking gym. If you were too delusional and stupid to figure me out, then that’s on you.
If you want to blame someone, then blame yourself for being stupid enough to think you could actually pull a guy like me. A little advice? Stop baking cookies and eat a fucking carrot, bitch. You got what you deserved.
I can’t breathe. Can’t think straight. I feel murderous rage coursing through me in a way I’ve never experienced before. I look around the coffee place, feeling like smoke is physically billowing out my ears. I don’t know where Greg Smith exists in this world at this moment, but when I find out, I’m going to fucking destroy him.
After several deep breaths and a long chug of my coffee, I return to Hannah’s communications with the attorney. “Those texts are absolutely despicable,” the attorney writes. “But, unfortunately, they’re not actionable in a legal sense. Mean words alone aren’t grounds for a protective order.” After a bit more back and forth, the attorney ultimately advises Hannah not to file her legal form yet, if ever. The attorney explains, “Since he seems to be out of your life for good, and it’s also highly unlikely the police will pursue him, I think you’ll actually be safer if you don’t poke the bear, so to speak. Let him move onto his next target and forget you exist. If he contacts you again and/or threatens you in any fashion, then file this paperwork immediately.” She gives Hannah a few pointers for things to add to her form and wishes her luck. And that’s that. Apparently, Hannah never filed the form or contacted the attorney again.
My heart pounding, I click out of Hannah’s laptop and immediately dive head-first into searching the fucker’s two names. Not surprisingly, given that Hannah filled out this form over two years ago, he’s no longer at the address listed on the form. Also, the email he used to send those heinous messages to Hannah is no longer active. My “penile enlargement” spam message bounces right back.
Thankfully, I have his date of birth from the form, so I use that to collect some basic information. But, still, I can’t find a current address or any social media accounts under either of the two names supplied by Hannah, since he’s had no arrests or criminal record. Which means he’s still out there, terrorizing other women. Probably under a new set of names.
An alarm goes off on my phone, telling me it’s time to drag my ass to my meeting with the feds. With a deep sigh, I grab a screen shot of everything in Hannah’s “The Asshole” folder, since I’m never going to enter Hannah’s devices again but might need to refer back to this information when researching later. As my second alarm goes off, telling me I’m now running late, I quickly pack up my shit, throw my empty coffee cup into my computer bag to toss later, at another location, since I never leave my DNA in public places where I’ve been sitting a long time, and then, off I go to the one place I never would have guessed I’d willingly go in a million years: The FBI’s headquarters down the street.
9
HENN
Twelve days later
“Welcome to Seattle,” my Uber driver says, as he pulls away from the arrivals curb at Sea-Tac. “Coming home?”
“Visiting.”
“How was your flight?”
“Easy. I came in from LA.”
“I hope you brought some California sunshine with you. It’s been pouring all week. Only cleared up an hour ago.”
“Sorry, weather patterns are one of two things I can’t control with my superpowers.”
He chuckles. “What’s the other?”
“I’m like the genie in Aladdin. Unfortunately, I can’t make someone fall in love with me or anyone else.”
“Damn. You mean you’ve gotta wine and dine her—or him, whatever floats your boat—like the rest of us mere mortals?”
“That’s why I’m here in Seattle, as a matter of fact. To wine and dine someone the old-fashioned way.”
“Good for you. Hope it works out.”
“Thanks. Me, too.”
I look out the car window and smirk to myself. I love having conversations like this with perfect strangers about my superpowers—the kind where I’m being dead-ass serious, but the other person assumes I’m joking around. I guess it helps keep me sane to vaguely confess my secrets out loud, even if only as a joke.
One of the phones in my computer bag buzzes on the car seat next to me, and when I locate the source of the sound, it’s the phone the feds gave me on my last day in DC three days ago, right before I left for LA. They said they wanted a secure means of contacting me again, in case they had any follow-up questions about the job I did for them or maybe wanted to hire me for a new job. That’s when I knew the jig was up—that I hadn’t fooled them into thinking I’m nothing but a mediocre hacker who’d gotten lucky with the data and funds I’d recovered in Vegas.
