Hunted in the Dark Read online

  Like always, he walks straight to my register.

  “The usual?” I ask, trying for a cheeky smile that probably looks like a weird grimace.

  He nods at me without speaking because he almost never speaks, just gives me a brief once-over before returning his gaze to my face and keeping it there.

  When I push the too-expensive coffee across the counter, he reaches for it at the same time. For a split second, his fingers barely brush the back of my hand and his touch is like an electric shock.

  I yank my hand away and glance up at him on impulse. To my surprise, I find him staring directly at me with eyes that are more dark and intense than the designer espresso cooling on the counter.

  His gaze remains locked on mine for a moment longer than what’s appropriate. It’s like I’m free-falling into an abyss. I’m exhilarated and terrified.

  He looks away, and the moment is gone. His gaze moves to the little stand full of napkins, sugar and creamer. Whatever moment we may have had is gone. He turns away and doesn’t glance back.

  I guess it was just my moment.

  I try to shrug it off, but I can’t help feeling a little bereft as I watch him move around the counter and take a table that’s just out of sight. From experience, I know that’s the last I’ll see of him for the day. I can’t even move to the blender area in the hopes of seeing him because "Personal Space" Peter is making the frozen drinks today. He’ll flip his lid if I come within twelve feet of him. I might as well be super-glued to the register.

  Not for the first time, I wonder why I bother with this stupid job. Dad would flip his lid if he ever found out that I’m wage-slaving during campaign season. What if some over-eager photog caught a picture of me looking anything less than as perfectly coiffed and dressed as a Victorian china doll — only with slightly less personality?

  Because my dad just can’t be Dad. He has to be incumbent U.S. Senator John Reynolds of the glorious state of Tennessee. He ran for office the first time when I was two years old, so you’d think I’d be used to it by now.

  Dad has always campaigned using rhetoric about family values and a return to a traditional way of life. And I’m supposed to fit into all of it by playing the part of America’s perfect daughter — all pretty dresses, blank expression and not even a whiff of controversy.

  Getting a part-time job is a small rebellion but not an insignificant one. Dad has control over every aspect of my life, from what college I attend to how much makeup I wear (usually none!). Minimum wage isn’t much, but it is the smallest taste of freedom.

  And I should be careful of even that small temptation.

  Do I have to remind you why we do this? My dad’s voice sounds almost as real in my head as it would if he was standing right next to me. The words are a familiar refrain, a reminder of what can happen when we stop thinking about the consequences.

  My mother has been dead for almost ten years, but who she was still hangs over everything like a shadow.

  We almost never talk about her. My father would probably like to think about her even less than that.

  I used to carry a small picture of her in my school bag when I was younger until my dad found out and took it away. Most of our physical memories of her have been systematically stripped from every part of our life. Family portraits, mementos, even her old clothes — all of it has been hidden away or destroyed. My father says it’s because the reminder of her is too much to deal with, but I’ve always known it was something more.

  He worries that if I spend too much time thinking about her that I’ll end up acting just like her. I’m not sure which of us is more scared of that possibility.

  Most of the time, I try my best to be exactly what my dad wants me to be. Sometimes out of guilt or duty, but mostly because I know how much he wants to be a part of a perfect family with no hint of scandal. That’s why he sent me to Trinity College. The evangelical Christian enclave in the mountains of western Virginia where you can get expelled for kissing a member of the opposite sex and probably burned at the stake for doing anything more.

  And I wish I could be like the automatons I go to school with who only dress in pastel colors and seem to truly love attending three-hour long church services multiple times a week.

  But I’m not ever going to be like them. And I dread the day that my father finally figures that out.

  All the Bible study in the world can’t seem to stop the wicked thoughts from creeping through my mind. Fantasies so dark and twisted that I don’t even want to describe them for fear that words will turn into a reality.

  The mysterious man with the intense eyes and the expensive coffee habit is the same thing — a fantasy that can’t ever become a reality.

  I straighten a stack of coffee cups that’s on the counter. We’re in the middle of the afternoon slump at the coffee shop, but there’s still a few hours left in my shift. The shop is one of those generic places in the parking lot of a strip mall so there’s not a lot of foot traffic coming through at this time of day. I wouldn’t dare get a job at one of the local places that’s closer to campus. I know Dad has spies on the faculty at Trinity and word would get back to him of my unacceptable behavior before I got through my first shift.

  The only people at Trinity who work are the occasional scholarship students who comes from “disadvantaged backgrounds”. And those students only get admitted because the administration is hoping they’ll go back home as warriors for Christ to infect everyone else in their communities. The degree itself is barely worth the paper that it’s printed on and most of the majors aren’t even accredited.

  He’d never admit it but my dad didn’t send me to Trinity for an education — though I’m sure he’s hoping that I haven’t figured that out. No, the only degree that he wants me to get is the M.R.S. with a major in 2.5 children and a picket fence.

  A few more customers come and go over the next hour but I couldn’t pick any of their faces out of a lineup if you paid me. I know I’m the one who complains about being invisible but for some reason I’m incredibly distracted.

  And it’s not just the sexy, mystery man. I just have this sense that something is going to happen. I’ve always had a sixth sense about stuff, which is one of the few things that I’m not ashamed to admit that I got from my mother.

  It’s probably just that today is my last day at Trinity before I go home for summer break. Well, not home exactly. Home is a sprawling ranch in Tennessee with a creek running through it and acres of trees. Instead, I’ll be heading to Washington, D.C. for campaign fundraising events. Dad hasn’t officially made the announcement yet, but it’s pretty much common knowledge that he’s planning to make a run for president.

  I don’t like to think of what will happen to my life when I’m suddenly a side-show attraction for the whole world. I push the thought away with an effort.

  That has to be the source of this notion — the sense of dread and impending doom that slowly seeps over me.

  Peter slides a spray bottle and a rag across the counter towards me. It’s his way of telling me that it’s my turn to wipe down the tables. I definitely make a point of scoping for the mystery man as I move through the seating area but there’s no sign of him. He must have slipped out when I wasn’t paying attention.

  It’s probably for the best. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who wanted a Stepford wife and the kind of quiet, scandal-free life that would make Leave it to Beaver seem X-rated in comparison.

  When my shift is finally over, I have less than an hour to get across town and back to campus. I step outside into a blast of West Virginia heat. It’s hot enough that steam rises up in waves off of the pavement.

  There’s an unmarked, black panel van parked across the street from the coffee shop. My gaze just happens to slide over it like any other piece of scenery but in that same moment the van’s engine starts with a loud eruption of sound. It peels away down the street.

  Seems strange, but I let it go. There are plenty of those types of vans a
round and the driver peeling out at the same time I noticed it has to be just a coincidence.

  Absolutely nothing to worry about.

  I haven’t even been in D.C. for an entire afternoon by the time that Dad starts in on me. There’s some charity dinner tonight that’s just an excuse to schmooze with potential donors. I’m just not ready to jump back into campaign season without some kind of break.

  My step-mother, Magda, gives me a knowing look over my father’s shoulder as I force my face into a pained expression I hope isn’t too over-the-top. She’s not buying my act for a minute, but I doubt she cares enough to call me out.

  Dad is the one I have to convince.

  Senator Reynolds is already dressed for the evening and it’s barely late afternoon. His tailored tuxedo has been pressed and his shoes are so shiny that I can see my reflection in them. His cummerbund matches the color that Magda has painted on her nails. They’re so perfectly poised and polished and I’m dreading the idea of just washing my hair.

  “This is a very important dinner, sweetheart, full of potential donors.” His Tennessee twang is barely audible. He always talks differently when he leaves home. Like he wants people to remember he’s a good old Southern boy, but not so much that anyone would lose respect for him. “You can’t come for just a few hours and take some pictures?”

  I grip my stomach and let out a little moan. The thought of one more campaign dinner or charity fundraiser almost feels like a physical pain. I spent the entire year at school pretending to be the perfect little girl and I had really hoped to avoid it for at least a couple of days into summer.

  My father wants me to always be standing next to him in a virginal-white dress and modest heels wherever he goes. There’s never been a modern president who didn’t have clean-cut kids wearing perma-smiles to trot out on the campaign trail. I think it’s because the president is like America’s father — got to prove you have the experience needed for the job.

  But it was a three-hour drive from school and I was hoping to at least get a night before the whirlwind started back up again. I dread the day he announces he’s running for president, even though I know it’s inevitable at this point. He wouldn’t be working this hard if it was just to get reelected to the Senate.

  “Please just let me stay home tonight,” I beg, trying to sound as pathetic as possible. “I promise I’ll go to the DAR luncheon with Magda tomorrow.”

  My step-mother is already in her evening finery, too. She’s wearing a floor-length evening gown that’s cut high for modesty, but hugs her slim frame. She’s very good at giving off that air of conservative allure that’s the epitome of high-class Republican. They got married when I was thirteen and she’s been my dad’s perfect counterpart ever since.

  Magda checks the gold watch on her wrist. “It’s getting late, darling. We have to go. Just let her stay home. One event won’t make that big of a difference.”

  I appreciate her support. I wouldn’t call her a second mother, but she’s never acted like a fairytale stereotype. Most of the time, she goes her way and I go mine.

  Dad still looks undecided. He’s used to having me do whatever he wants without complaint, but I rarely ask for anything.

  “It’s just one night, Dad.”

  He sighs. “Fine. But I want you in bed early so you’ll be refreshed for the luncheon tomorrow. Don’t stay up all night gabbing on the phone with your school friends.”

  School friends. He still treats me like I’m thirteen and spending all my time on party lines. I’m twenty-one years old and an adult by pretty much anyone’s metric — except his, of course.

  To him, I’ll still be a kid when I’m forty-years-old and have children of my own.

  “Yes, Daddy.” Triumph streaks through me as he bends down to kiss me on the cheek.

  Dad even pats me on the head before he leaves my room. Magda floats out after him on a trail of designer perfume.

  I love my dad, but I learned a long time ago that who he wants me to be and who I am are fundamental opposites. My dad wants to turn me into the sedate wife of a politician who stays home, spits out a few kids but also looks good in a Chanel suit for campaign events. Somebody like Magda, pleasant and subordinate like a good Christian wife.

  That’s why he insisted that I go to Trinity. It’s less of an institution of higher learning and more an expensive match-making service for the wealthy religious right. At least a quarter of the girls I started out with freshman year have already dropped out to get married.

  Trinity doesn’t even offer a degree in software engineering. And their computer science degree doesn’t cover much that’s more complicated than Microsoft Office.

  Dad knew that when he sent me, even as I begged to go to Tennessee State or, God forbid, apply to some place like Cal Tech or MIT. Heathen dens of debauchery and moral disgrace, as he likes to call them. It didn’t matter to him that I understand computers better than I do people. No daughter of his is going to some liberal Sodom where girls get everything on their bodies pierced and blow a guy for each letter of the alphabet.

  I’m not even sure if it’s my virtue he’s concerned about or if he just wants to avoid any hint of a scandal until he’s sworn in as president. I’ve had to spend my entire life being forced to think about how everything I do affects his career. Chelsea Clinton got to go to Princeton, but she’s a left-wing whore according to Dad, so it’s useless to invite the comparison.

  So I have to find other ways of getting an education.

  I boot up the computer sitting on the desk. It’s the first one that I ever built, back in middle school. I’ve been updating it ever since with more RAM and bigger hard drives. I even replaced the motherboard last year. But the thing is on its last legs and isn’t good for much besides word processing and surfing the internet. Unfortunately, it’s the only thing I have access to here in D.C. It’ll be better when we go back to Tennessee next week. Dad would get suspicious if I brought home the server that I keep in the closet of my dorm room at school.

  He has no idea what I do with my time, which is how I want things to stay.

  My little minimum wage job at the coffee shop is just enough to cover the cost of parts and specialty tools.

  I pull up a chat window with a few clicks of the mouse. Some of my group are already online. I won’t be much use to them right now with this crappy computer, but I’m a good problem solver.

  Which is a necessary skill for a hacker.

  It’s all white hat stuff. Small companies use people like me to test out their computer security systems. It takes the same techniques as the more malicious stuff, but instead of exploiting the weakness for personal gain you share what you learn with the company itself. Usually, we get paid for every vulnerability that we find. It’s good for the company because if I find a weakness, then it’s only a matter of time before a bad guy finds it too. This way they can fix the chinks in the armor before they turn into real problems.

  Very expensive problems.

  Dad doesn’t know about any of this. He put up with it when I tinkered with computers as a kid, but he made it clear that I wouldn’t be doing it for a living. He wants me to do something respectable and feminine like teach elementary school or become a nurse.

  He would hit the ceiling if he found that I’m making money by breaking into online security systems. I can’t ever imagine him introducing me on the campaign trail as my daughter, the computer hacker.

  I’ve thought about telling him at least a hundred times. Maybe try to explain that it wouldn’t be as bad as he thinks. Women do everything that men do, these days. I heard on the news just the other day that the Army special forces will start letting women in if they can meet the standards. I don’t even want to do anything that drastic.

  But my dad has a mindset that wouldn’t be out-of-place in 1950. He sees any career as a fallback for if I can’t marry well enough. He’s never sat me down and said “you can’t do these things because you’re a girl,” but actions speak lo
uder than words. So I keep my hacking and my minimum wage coffee shop job a secret. All of it is savings for the day when I can finally strike out on my own.

  White_night00 messages me first. All any of us know about each other is an online persona, but he’s my favorite.

  White_night00: any luck with that cyber com system?

  I’ve been trying unsuccessfully to crack Cybercom’s new system. They’re one of the biggest telecommunications companies in the world and right now there’s several thousands dollars on the table for anyone who can find a hole in their new security protocol.

  MadHacker95: I tried installing a rootkit, but it got quarantined.

  White_Night00: pele wrote a new script the other day. he says we can split the prize if we work together

  MadHacker95: What?

  MadHacker95: Like a brute force attack?

  White_Night00: ddos, i think

  MadHacker95: I don’t have access right now. mavhe in a few weeks.

  MadHacker95: *Maybe

  A DDoS attack is probably too simple for a system as complicated as Cybercom’s, but it could work with enough force. Basically a bunch of computers use a coordinated strike to so overload the target system that it gets knocked out until the server can reload. A DDoS attack almost certainly wouldn’t work on its own, but it might expose a weakness that could be exploited by the right malware.

  Of course, they would need my IP address for it to work and it would be even better if we were in the same location. This whole thing has only stayed under my father’s nose because I made a point of staying anonymous online. My father might actually lock me in my bedroom until my thirtieth birthday if anyone found about this.

  He also doesn’t know about the money I’ve been slowly putting away over the years. My bug bounties from the hacking are slowly growing in a bank account that he will hopefully never find out about.

  Money is freedom. I love my dad but he’s never going to stop seeing me as a child, as a reflection of him. Eventually I’m going to need to make a go of it on my own.