I’m a billionaire. I can buy anything I want.
Anything but Kate, a vicious whisper slices through my brain.
I click the link for the blackmailer’s cryptocurrency account. I transfer one hundred million dollars and turn off my computer for the rest of the day.
But I’m back at work the following morning. Or, rather, I’m sitting in front of my computer, doing what passes for work now.
I keep thinking back to my first clumsy attempts at programming, to the snippets I wrote for Mr. A in robotics club. I was terrified of making a mistake. I didn’t want to give him any excuse for throwing me out of the club. I documented every line I wrote, leaving detailed comments so future students could seeexactly what I’d done. I refused to allow myself the luxury of skipping even a single step, of combining two functions into one, of streamlining my work in any way.
I’m not a child anymore. Those old projects are so simple I could write them in my sleep. Idowrite them in my sleep—every night, as I lie alone in my bed, stretching out in the middle of the mattress, bathed in absolute darkness.
I test myself. I see how few lines of code I can use to write routines I’ve known by heart for decades. I count individual characters, fighting to use fewer each round. The first thing to go is careful commenting.
It’s easy to become obsessed. I turn off my phone for hours at a stretch, letting client requests go to voicemail. This is the perfect opportunity to teach them to respect my time.
I tell Anna not to bother making meals. I’ll grab something from the fridge when I’m hungry.IfI’m hungry. Most days, I don’t think about eating until hours after a normal man’s dinner, when I’m already lying in bed in the dark. It’s not worth going back downstairs.
My ground-floor office is haunted. Every time I sit at my desk, I see Kate leashed to the frame of monitors. I hear her murmuring in her sleep. I feel the yawning emptiness in my gut as I watched her walk away.
The gym on the second floor is the only place I can kill the ghosts. I have a quarter million dollars-worth of equipment—every machine, monitor, and workout system known to man. But it’s the heavy bag I’m drawn to—wrapping my hands and throwing hour after hour of steady punches. Each blow focuses my concentration, pulling me deeper into my body, further into my mind.
After a week, I can no longer ignore the splitting pain in my knuckles, and I switch to the speed bag. My muscles burn, and my lungs are on fire. My entire world narrows to that swinging leather bag. My vision tunnels to black.
I stagger over to the inclined bench. My arms are spent, butI can still do crunches, reps of two dozen with a twenty-five-pound weight held across my chest, over and over until I can’t manage one more curl.
Pain permeates my body—my muscles, my lungs, my brain. It’s sharp. Jagged. Pure. I’ve burned off all the inessentials in my life.
When I can finally force myself to my feet, I stumble down the hall. I stand beneath a stinging shower for over an hour, bracing myself against the tiled wall. After, I stare at the idiot in the mirror, the man who can’t raise his arms to towel dry his hair.
I collapse into bed, spread-eagle on the mattress, and I sleep for eight hours without moving. In the morning, I ache—a pain I know will get worse throughout the day.
Which means it’s time to get back to programming. A random number generator. A password manager. A spreadsheet to analyze Lone Wolf business expenses.
I fight to write perfect code.
In the absolute silence of my house.
Alone.
52
KATE
Another week. More meals. Less sleep.
I order a suture removal kit online and have it delivered to the motel’s front desk. When I pull the knotted black thread from my thigh I expect it to hurt, but all I feel is pressure. An angry red scar waits beneath, longer and darker than all the others.
I can’t keep living this way. I can’t stay inside these four dingy walls. I can’t avoid going online, visiting websites I’ve known since the day I sat down at my first computer. I’ve only been trapped like this one other time in my life.
My job is to keep Breagha safe, to keep her from being afraid. I’m eight and she’s five, and I have to keep her from touching Larissa in the dark. She can’t find out how cold Larissa is.
Breagha says she’s hungry, so I give her all my food. I’m strong. I don’t need it. After a while, my stomach doesn’t even hurt.
Late at night, when Breagha’s head is in my lap, I listen to the BadMen through the grate in the floor. I memorize everything they say. That’s what a good girl does. That’s what a Lynch girl does to help her clan.
It takes me a long time to realize thecocksuckerthey’re talking about is Da. Thecocksuckerwon’t leave Baltimore to the bratva. Thecocksuckerwon’t pay to bring Breagha and me home. Thecocksuckerwill end up with three fucking corpses on his motherfucking doorstep if he doesn’t do what’s good for him.
Finally a new Bad Man comes. He’s more important than the rest. They call him Brigadier. The other men listen to him, even though when he laughs he sounds exactly like a girl.