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“Oh, my my my. Aman. I am intrigued!”
Her obnoxious laugh follows me out as I weave a path toward the exit.
They—whoevertheyare—say blondes have more fun. Well, I’m about to test that theory on one revenge scheme for Ericson Daverns.
* * *
Hacking is a learned skill that anyone with half a brain and the basic understanding of computer networks can acquire.
Computers came naturally to me. I remember the couple of girlfriends my mother would always invite over in the hopes I’d “make a connection”. These girls often complained about our comp classes, not understanding the language.
From the first time I laid my little fingers to the keys, I felt that connection I could never obtain with another person. I spoke the language of the cold, hard object that computed information with no emotion to hinder its thought process.
We were kindred.
My teenage years were spent diving the dark web and uncovering every shady corner of the Internet. From a solitary computer, one can do almost anything. Learn anything. Be anyone, find anyone.
The limitless possibilities of a computer’s reach and the anonymity it provides is how I became involved in my field of work to begin with. Police and even the government are still a step behind hackers and people who are governed solely by their greed.
In my upstairs loft, I seat myself behind my metal desk and shake out the loose waves of my freshly highlighted hair before I pull open my MacBook. Maybe it’s just the newness, the mind aware that a drastic change has been made, but my head feels lighter. I actually feel more buoyant.
Lyric must either fear Rochelle or worship her—most likely both—because she canceled her morning appointment to squeeze me in, and according to a quick search of Lyric, she’s one of the most sought-after stylists in New York.
I rolled into Lucy’s office job two hours late, but my boss never gives me too much grief because I make him a ludicrous amount of money. Besides, thanks to my new look, I doubt he even recognized me for the better part of the day.
When Lyric’s task to transform me into another person was complete, I admit, I barely recognized myself in the mirror. The platinum highlights mixed with caramel lowlights brought out the green in my eyes and the dark slash of my eyebrows, making my eyes a striking feature.
With the right clothes, revealing in strategic places, Ericson should become an easy mark. And to help solidify that endeavor, I log in to my ghost email account and spam him with the most salacious and sexually explicit content.
I hacked all three of his email accounts during the vetting period. He has one email for work, one for VIP clients, and one personal.
I fill his personal account with ads from The Naughty Playroom. Then for good measure, I retarget his social media account with the same ads featuring scantily-clad escorts.
Now, on to Rochelle’s latest victim.
I unkink my neck with a stretch, then dig into research on Katy Dee. She’s just a baby. Twenty-two years of age living right here in NYC. She’s an artist whose focus is on saving endangered animals. Her most popular art prints—zebras, pandas, and other various black-and-white mammals—were picked up by a known clothing brand, and the line proudly touts its use of all natural material.
I roll my eyes. All material is natural. But honestly, the mesh of sateen and voile boasts to be both posh and comfortable. I buy a few shirts before I tank Katy. What Rochelle doesn’t know won’t hurt her.
Okay—so what Rochelle is asking for technically can’t be done. Well, it can be, but the nerds will have Katy’s account back up not long after I take it down. She might not even register a blip in inactivity.
But there are other ways to nix a social media account. One just has to be creative.
I set the password cracker—that I proudly coded myself—and then go downstairs to make a cocktail. As I return to the loft, I’m surprised to see that my program has already cracked Katy’s Instagram password.
Pandas1234.
“Christ,” I mutter. Someone this naïve is just asking for it. But her password gives me a terrible idea—and I love those.
I set to Googling endangered species hunters, and within a few minutes I find what I’m looking for. Brooke Cannon, a young socialite herself, likes to brag to the world about her number of kills. She’s quite the little serial killer of the world’s most endangered animals. And lucky me, she has a photo of her standing next to a dead panda—pink riffle held high in the air—that she shot herself.
How much sport is there in shooting a panda? Even I’m a little mortified.
More research proves that pandas bring in a lot of money for their fur.
Perfect.
With a little help from Photoshop, I have a believable pic of Katy Dee and Brooke sitting together and laughing over chardonnay as they toast the good life. The image goes up on Katy’s account. The post reads:
