Version 1.12.0

  Friday November 4th

  Greg's denial came out Friday morning. I was eating breakfast (which was a word that here meant "black coffee and a granola bar I'd found in the back of my pantry") when my phone buzzed with a news alert.

  Holloway CEO Claims Hacking, Denies Confession

  I clicked through to the article with a sinking feeling. Greg had hired a crisis management firm, apparently. His statement was polished, practiced, full of righteous indignation. The confession had been fabricated. His email had been hacked. His home electronics had been fried. He was the victim of a sophisticated cyber attack designed to destroy his reputation and destabilize the company. He would be pursuing legal action against whoever was responsible.

  The article noted that forensic experts were examining the email servers. That some of the documents in the leak appeared to be genuine, while others were "of uncertain provenance." That the women named in the files had not yet come forward to corroborate the accusations.

  Of course they hadn't. They'd signed NDAs. They'd taken the money and tried to move on with their lives. Why would they come forward now, just to be dragged through the mud again?

  I threw my phone across the room. It bounced off the couch and landed on the floor, screen cracked but still functional. I stared at it for a long moment, breathing hard, feeling the code pulse around me like a living thing.

  He was going to get away with it. He was going to claim he was hacked (which, okay, technically he was) and hire enough lawyers and PR people to muddy the waters, and eventually people would forget, and he'd go back to running Holloway like nothing had happened.

  Unless. Unless I did something else. Unless I found more evidence, something undeniable, something he couldn't explain away. Unless I burned his whole world down so completely that there was nothing left to salvage.

  I could do it. I had the power. The code was right there, all the time now, waiting to be shaped. I walked over, picking up my phone, and ran a finger along the crack, sealing it back together as if it had never cracked in the first place.

  But. I'd promised Kate. I took a breath and sighed, putting my head in my hands.

  * * *

  The call came Friday afternoon.

  I was in the middle of assembling a new bookshelf (I'd ordered it the previous day and it had arrived over night, because apparently that’s what I do now) when my phone rang.

  Kate's name on the screen.

  "Hey," I said. "What's up? You ready for our night on the town?"

  "You did it." Her voice was angry. Accusatory. "You did all of it. The emails, the leak, everything."

  My stomach dropped. "Kate, I don't know what you're..."

  "Don't. Don't lie to me." I heard her take a shaky breath. "I just got off the phone with my cousin who works at Channel 7. She told me what was in the original leak. The stuff they didn't publish."

  "Kate..."

  "There were names, Sam. Names they decided not to release because they couldn't verify the stories independently. And one of those names was Jessica."

  I closed my eyes. I could see where this was going.

  "Jessica," Kate continued, "Jessica, who you mentioned at the coffee shop yesterday. You said, 'At least the women he hurt will get justice. Women like Jessica.' And I thought, that's weird, why would Sam mention Jessica? But I told myself maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe you'd heard the name somewhere."

  "Kate, I..."

  "And you know what else was weird. Whose name was missing? Even unreleased.”

  I stared blankly at my bookshelf, my mouth dry as the Sahara. The milliseconds of silence dragging on for a lifetime.

  "Yours, Samantha. Why would someone who had a change of heart confess to all of his sins minus the last person he threw under the bus? How, Sam?" Her voice cracked. "How did you know Jessica's name? How did you know she was involved, when that information never went public? Unless you were the one who sent it in the first place?"

  I didn't have an answer. There wasn't one.

  "I trusted you," Kate said. "I believed you when you said you'd let it go. I defended you to myself over and over again, told myself I was being paranoid, told myself you wouldn't lie to me. And the whole time..."

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  "I was trying to help. Greg is a monster, Kate. You saw what he did. He deserved..."

  "I don't care what he deserved! I care that you lied to me! I care that you're doing something illegal, I don't even know what! What's worse is you're dragging me into it, you're dragging these poor women into it. My job is on the line, Priya's job is on the line, and the whole company is falling apart, and I don't even know who you are anymore!"

  "Kate, please..."

  "No. I'm done. I can't..." Her voice broke. "I can't do this. I can't keep wondering what's real and what isn't. I can't keep worrying that you're going to make another scene. I need you to leave me alone, Sam. I need you to stay away from me."

  "Kate..."

  The line went dead.

  I called back. It went straight to voicemail.

  I called again. Same thing.

  Me: Please, just let me explain.

  Kate: Message undelivered.

  I sat on the floor of my apartment, surrounded by bookshelf parts and allen wrenches, and felt something inside me crack open.

  * * *

  Saturday November 5- Friday November 10

  The apartment looked amazing.

  That was the thing I couldn't stop noticing, in the days after Kate stopped returning my calls. The apartment looked amazing. Ice blue walls, emerald curtains, velvety green couch that was ugly and beautiful and impossibly comfortable. New TV, new bookshelves, new everything. It looked like a place where a happy, successful person lived.

  By the front door, a gift bag sat untouched. Burgundy tissue paper peeking out the top. The cashmere scarf I'd bought for Kate, still wrapped, still waiting for a bar date that would never happen.

  I couldn't bring myself to move it. The silence was deafening.

  * * *

  Saturday, I told myself it was fine. Kate just needed space. She'd calm down, think it through, realize I'd done the right thing. Greg was a monster. I'd exposed a monster. That was good. That was justice.

  Me: I know you're upset. I'm here when you're ready to talk.

  Kate: Message undelivered.

  Sunday, I tried calling. Straight to voicemail. I left a message, rambling and apologetic, trying to explain without really explaining. "I just wanted to help. I didn't mean for anyone else to get hurt. Please call me back."

  She didn't call back.

  Monday, I drove to her apartment. Sat in the car for twenty minutes, staring up at her window, trying to work up the courage to go inside. What would I even say? "Sorry I lied to you, but I can manipulate reality with my mind and I used that power to destroy our boss"?

  I drove home without getting out of the car.

  * * *

  I stopped going to the coffee shop. I cancelled my date with Scott. I stopped going anywhere, really. I ordered groceries online and let them pile up in the fridge uneaten. Applied for jobs I didn't want and didn't hear back from. Watched my fabricated bank balance slowly dwindle and couldn't bring myself to care enough to add more.

  The days blurred together. I'd wake up at noon, or 2 PM, or sometimes not until evening. I'd sit on my hideous marshmallow couch and stare at my expensive TV and feel nothing. The code shimmered around me constantly now, a reminder of what I could do, what I had done, what I'd become.

  Sometimes I'd practice, just to feel something. Change the color of a throw pillow. Make a glass of water slightly colder. Small, pointless manipulations that proved I still had power, even if I had nothing to use it on.

  One night, I found myself staring at my phone, thumb hovering over Kate's contact. I could see the code in it now, the intricate patterns that made up her number, her texts, her voicemail. I could probably manipulate it. Make her phone ring. Make a message appear that looked like it came from me but said exactly the right thing to make her forgive me.

  I put the phone down and didn't pick it up again for two days.

  * * *

  Even the audiobook couldn't hold my attention anymore. I'd pause it mid-sentence and realize hours had passed. Aurora had made her choice, apparently. She'd gone with Allister, left everything behind, embraced becoming something new and terrifying and powerful.

  "'I don't know what I am anymore,' Aurora whispered. 'Human? Fae? Something else entirely?'

  Allister traced a finger along her cheekbone, where faint silver markings had begun to appear. 'You're becoming what you were always meant to be. The question is...'"

  I turned it off. It no longer felt like a fantasy.

  I could do anything. That was the joke of it. I could change the color of my walls with a thought. I could add money to my bank account from nothing. I could hack into any system, expose any secret, destroy any life. I could do anything except make my friend talk to me.

  * * *

  On the fourth day, I sat down with my journal and tried to write. Something coherent. Something that made sense of what I was feeling.

  Day ???

  Greg is on TV saying he's the victim. Daniel's probably going to sue someone. Holloway might not survive the year.

  Kate won't return my calls.

  I have more power than I've ever imagined. I can see the code everywhere now, all the time, this constant shimmer underneath reality. I could reshape the world if I wanted to.

  I've never felt more alone in my life.

  What's the point if there's no one to share it with?

  I stared at the words until they blurred. Then I closed the journal and set it aside. The gift bag by the door caught my eye. Burgundy tissue paper. Cashmere scarf. A friendship I'd burned to the ground for the sake of justice that might not even stick.

  I thought about calling my mom. Telling her... what? That I'd lost my job, lost my friend, gained the ability to rewrite reality? She'd either think I was having a breakdown or she'd find a way to make it about herself. Neither option seemed appealing. I thought about Sarah, in Seattle. We hadn't really talked in years. Would she even remember me? Would she care?

  I thought about the man from the coffee shop. Scott. The way he'd smiled at me, warm and genuine. The way Kate had teased me about getting his number. I didn't even know his last name. And after blowing him off would he even still want to meet up? He hadn’t texted me again since I bailed on our lunch date.

  Outside my window, the sun was setting. Orange and pink light painting the buildings, filtering through my expensive new curtains, casting shadows across my expensive new floor. I'd won. Hadn't I? Daniel was destroyed. Greg was exposed, even if he was fighting it. I had money, power, abilities that defied explanation.

  And I was sitting alone in my beautiful apartment, surrounded by nice things, with no one to call and nowhere to go. The code shimmered around me, patient and eternal, waiting for me to do something with it. I had no idea what that something was.

  Patreon.