Page 7 of Embrace Me Forever

“Dang! I take back what I said,” Anne exhales, her eyes lingering on Robson Hartley’s photo. “I so wish he wasn’t married.”

Spurred by the discovery, I delve deeper into Clayton Hartley’s ties with Kenya. Buried in a seldom-visited corner of the internet, I find an article detailing his contributions to constructing a school near the Masai Mara. “Well, well, seems the Hartley brothers might have a few redeeming qualities,” I muse with a wry smile.

Anne laughs lightly. “Too bad they’re both off the market. Got any more brothers?”

“Oh, certainly!” I reply with exaggerated zeal, then let my smile slip into a smirk. “Matthew. He’s eleven.”

She rolls her eyes. “Great. Maybe there’s a gem among their board of directors?”

I flinch at the mention. “Please, don’t say ‘board of directors’ again!” The words conjure unwelcome memories of Bertram. Between my resignation and the night that changed everything, Bertram’s board bombarded me with calls and endless enticements to restart the project I’d initiated. When Sebastian said, ‘They’re coming for you!’ that night, it was clear the order came straight from them. Including the elusive puppet master, Abner Bertram.

Then, Coco’s cry travels from her bedroom.

“I’ll get her,” Anne offers, rising swiftly. “You keep working on what you need to. I know you’ll come up with something.”She plants a kiss on the top of my head before vanishing into Coco’s room.

Alone with my racing thoughts, I turn back to my laptop, my fingers hesitating above the keys. My resume as a university lecturer won’t be enough to captivate potential employers. I need something ingenious but, more importantly, something credible.

There’s only one person who can alter my past. At least on paper.

I launch the comm software on my laptop, a program I’ve built from scratch. As I input a sequence of digits, I notice the endpoint has shifted. “Of course you’ve moved,” I mutter, toggling the app into edit mode. Tweaking the code, I boost its ability to track IP footprints.

“Encountering a firewall, are we?” I continue, half to myself, as I deploy advanced network forensics. My coding prowess certainly hasn’t faded into the digital ether. “Bullseye!”

I type the command to call the returned number faster than a cat’s reflexes. “Cristo,” I greet him.

“Christ! I told you to destroy his phone,” the gruff, distorted voice replies, unmistakable even though we’ve only spoken once before.

“I did. But I found you.”

“No! You cannot find me.”

“Not your phone number, because it never was, was it? You used an IP-based ID, and I memorized it. Sure, you scramble it often. But don’t forget I know a thing or two about networks.”

He growls, his voice thick with frustration. “What do you want?”

“A small career boost, something in computer science.”

“I only deal with identities.”

“Employment is part of anyone’s identity. My boyfriend told me a lot about you. Should be as easy as your morning coffee.”

“Fine. But after this, you bugger off. Got it?” Even through the synthesized output, a hint of the Count of Monte Cristo’s British cadence slips past his usually measured tone. “I’ll sort out something that says you’ve been at Tesla for the last four years, covering up your stint at you-know-where.”

“Not too big, but substantial enough to showcase what I’m capable of. Think about a solo entrepreneur lending her services as a contractor.”

Another growl. “Give me a week,” he decides.

“Two days.”

“I’m doing you a favor.”

“And I’m asking it.”

“Three days,” he counters. “You’ll receive the details via snail mail, assuming you’re acquainted with the concept. And don’t ever call me again.”

The connection drops, leaving me engulfed in a storm of doubts and fears. Am I making the right choice, or am I about to dive headfirst into another disaster?

I pause, staring blankly at the screen. The faces of Robson and Clayton Hartley stare back at me. Can I trust them? Is this the best path for Coco and me, or am I grasping at straws?

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