Page 100 of Can't Stop Watching
"We can do this the hard way if that's what you want," he says, loosening his tie like we're negotiating happy hour specials instead of my safety. "I enjoy a challenge."
The way he says 'challenge' makes my skin crawl.
I glance down at my purse. Has my phone turned on yet? Time to check. I need 911. Quickly, I pull it out, glancing down to check the screen. In the same instant, Brian launches himselfacross the table like some deranged panther. The pitcher tips, spilling water. Glasses crash, breaking.
His weight slams me against the wall, knocking the air from my lungs. My phone clatters to the floor as his hand closes around my throat.
"Now," he whispers, "let's discuss your... qualifications."
32
DANE
Ipull up to Milo's cramped loft in Alphabet City, a technological hoarder's paradise where circuit boards and half-built computers compete with empty energy drink cans for every flat surface. The air smells like soldered metal and the chemical hint of whatever energy supplement Milo's mainlining today.
Milo himself is hunched over three monitors, fingers a blur on his mechanical keyboard. The incessant clicking stops only when I drop Sarah's phone on his desk.
"Christmas came early," he says, snatching it up. His eyes—bloodshot from what's probably been a 30-hour coding binge—narrow with interest. "Pretty pink case. Very college girl."
"Can you crack it?"
Milo scoffs. "Can I crack it? That's like asking if water's wet."
He connects it to some device I don't recognize, types commands I'll never understand, and within four minutes, he's in, scrolling through Sarah's digital life like he's reading a newspaper.
"People think passwords protect them," he mutters. "As if anything digital is ever truly secure."
I watch over his shoulder, that familiar coldness settling in my gut. "We're all just walking around naked, thinking our clothes keep us safe."
"Poetic, for a guy who shoots people."
I grunt, not denying is assertion.
Milo's fingers pause mid-scroll. "There's nothing here, man. Not even breadcrumbs."
"What do you mean nothing?" I lean closer, that prickle at the back of my neck growing sharper.
"I mean scrubbed clean. No texts, calls, or emails with Langford. No photos. No 'Dear Diary, I'm meeting a creepy rich guy who's definitely married' entries." Milo unplugs the phone. "This thing's been professionally wiped and returned to her dorm. Factory reset with just enough basic apps to look normal at first glance."
"Fuck." The word tastes like copper in my mouth.
Milo swivels in his chair, tattoos shifting under the blue glow of his monitors. "Our boy's good. Too good. Regular rich assholes hire lawyers. This guy's hiring digital ghosts. He's got someone good keeping his tech tight."
I stare at the pink phone case, thinking about all the things that aren't there. About Sarah's silence. About how easy it is to make people disappear—first digitally, then physically.
"You know what this means?" Milo asks.
I do. It means Sarah might already beyond help. It means Langford isn't just covering his tracks, he's erasing them completely.
It means I failed.
"What about cell tower data?" I ask. "Maybe there's a ping that doesn't match her routine."
Milo's fingers fly across the keyboard again, his face illuminated in the electronic glow like some tech-savvy gargoyle. After a minute of typing, he goes completely still.
"It's gone."
"What do you mean gone?"
