Page 10 of Crude Heir

“Got it?” he asks, adding another layer of anxiety to what I’m already feeling.

“Um…” Derrick is the Director of IT for the company. He wouldn’t be doing something underhanded. Right?

* * *

Derrick

“Nicole?” Damn it, I can’t lose her now.

“Yes,” she says, a note of unease riding her voice. “Let me put you on speaker while I try.”

“Go ahead.” I lean forward in my chair, waiting for her to change the settings. My leg bounces as my patience wears thin.Come on, Nicole.I know the exact moment she taps the link.I got her.Satisfaction courses through me.

The connection opens, granting me access to her phone. On her side, she should see the familiar landscape of the company’s home page. It’s a quick mock-up I set up for the occasion.

“It’s working,” she announces with relief.

“Good deal,” I reply, using my best good-job tone. “Don’t go in from your computer until I tell you I’m ready.”

“I promise.”

I end the call. For a minute there, I thought she was going to back out. If it was anyone else, she likely would have. The girl’s got good instincts, but all I needed was the right bait. Once she clicked the link, she gave me access to her system. As an added bonus, I can track her phone now.

The mirror image of her data feeds into the folder I created in my computer. Her browser history, favorites, emails, files, photos, and texts all coming in for me to inspect.

The text messages go back several years. Old conversations with her parents, school friends, a professor, and a couple of people I don’t bother to identify. The newer messages are little more than grocery orders, bank notifications, her grandmother, Jenae sending food orders or asking how long she’s going to take in arriving, and me.

GPS locations show she does little more than go back and forth from work, with little variation to the route. The only outside trip is to League City, back in February.

Her browser history consists of searches for household items, lingerie, and book reviews. Turns out, Miss Nicole has a fondness for sexy books. Who would have thought?

The photos are another surprise. They’re few and far between, going back a couple of years to show family. I can only assume they’re in a town she moved away from.

All in all, the digital corridors lead me nowhere. Is it just that she’s being careful? I would consider myself an average user and I easily have fifty chat groups, both business and personal. Even though I don’t take a lot of pictures, there’s photos I save from conversations with friends or screenshots I grab from the internet. This just doesn’t seem real. Does she lead an online life through her laptop instead?

I lean back in my big leather chair and blow out an annoyed breath. Glancing down at my watch, I catch the time. I’ve been distracted for almost an hour.

I scoop up my phone and place an order to have a pizza delivered. With dinner taken care of, I grab my keys and head down to the garage, anticipation scratching at my insides.

The drive to the apartment takes ten minutes. Kelly Oil & Gas has several units in a building across the highway. I suppose it’s a more cost-effective option than booking a hotel room every time someone comes to town for a meeting, or for a long-term stay, like mine.

I let myself into the downtown apartment. It’s a modest space, about the size of the average hotel suite, but it serves its purpose. The pizza arrives, and I log onto the computer, checking my watch. It’s 5:49. That should be enough time for Nicole to think I’ve finished what I was supposed to do.

I type out a quick text, putting the next step of the plan into motion.

You’re good to go in. Let me know if you have any issues.I read it and decide to add one more line for some added pressure.I’ll wait until you’re in then I’ll head out.

Nicole clicks the link. Hmm, she was waiting.

I’m in—accessing her system, camera, and microphone.

Nicole’s changed into a plain, gray T-shirt, her hair pulled up haphazardly, a loose curl framing her face. She has her phone in her hand, a smile on her face as she looks down at the screen. Is it my text she’s reading?

I study the surroundings with a critical eye. Turns out, Nicole really is a minimalist. The room itself is bare, containing only the essentials—a bed, a nightstand with a lamp, a bookcase, and possibly a dresser.

Everything’s neat and tidy, exactly as I’d expect from seeing how she keeps her office. Still, it seems odd for a woman not to have a least a picture frame or a print on the wall.

Nicole puts the cell down and proceeds into the payment software, only she’s not going through the steps I saw her take earlier. She double-clicks on an invoice.

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