Page 97 of Royal Deception
“No. I need a favor.” I get straight to the point. “Can Veridex track someone’s identity based on the pattern of their online comments?”
There’s a pause. I can almost hear him adjusting in his seat. “Are you talking about finding someone’s IP?” His voice is a mixof disbelief and curiosity, like he can’t decide whether I’m insane or brilliant.
“Sort of. This person probably uses a VPN, so that won’t be easy. And I think they’re using a series of alt accounts to stalk someone. There’s a certain pattern to their comments that makes me think it’s all connected.”
Mark exhales sharply. “Does this have anything to do with that attempt on my life? Are the Russians involved?” There’s a note of concern in his voice now, and I don’t blame him.
I keep my tone even. “No. It’s nothing like that.” Not yet, at least.
There’s another pause, then he sighs. “I can help you, but it’d be better if you brought the info in person. We don’t want to leave a paper trail if this guy is watching.”
“Can’t I just send it to you?”
“No. If they’re covering their tracks, the last thing we want is them realizing we’re onto them.”
That seals it. “Okay. I’ll meet you in an hour.”
Mark is still under Rory’s protection since the assassination attempt, and it shows. When I arrive, two of Rory’s men flank the entrance to the safehouse, their expressions unreadable, but their eyes track my every move. They don’t stop me, but there’s an unspoken warning in the way they stand—this place is locked down tight.
Inside, Mark sits at a wooden table, a laptop open in front of him. He gestures for me to sit. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
I slide a USB drive across the table. “Everything’s in there. Usernames, timestamps, comments—all from different accounts, but the phrasing is too similar. I think it’s the same person.”
Mark plugs it in and starts typing, his fingers moving fast over the keyboard. His brow furrows. “You’re right. The syntaxis off. Feels… forced. Like someone’s trying to sound casual but missing the mark.”
A cold weight settles in my stomach, but I keep my expression neutral. “So you can find them?”
Mark smirks. “Oh, I’ll find them.”
I should feel relieved. Instead, unease coils in my gut.
A few hours later, I get a text from Mark.
Mark: Running the data now. Should have preliminary results in a few hours. Will keep you updated.
Clary: Thanks. Let me know as soon as you find something.
Mark: I don’t like this. Too many red flags. Some of these dummy accounts have been scrubbed recently—like someone was covering their tracks.
Clary: Scrubbed? How recently?
Mark: A few within the last 24 hours. Someone knew you were looking.
I stare at my screen, a chill running through me.
Someone knew.
And they’re already trying to disappear.
A few hours later, my phone buzzes with a text from Mark.
Mark: Results are in. Check your inbox. You won’t believe this.
I open my laptop, clicking through to the email. The file he’s attached is full of data, a long string of usernames, timestamps, and comments that I’d already gone over. But there’s something new in Mark’s message.
I skim the file, my eyes darting over the familiar patterns I’d already seen. But then something stops me cold.
The usernames… they’re all from the same IP address.
