as ego-driven as Ben Zwick wouldn’t be able to ignore the lure of a long-lost friend or, even more, a professional rival who wanted to follow him.
“So,” I said, “the target types in his log-in information. Then what?”
His shoulder moved under the gray hoodie in a dismissive shrug. “The hacker has what he wants, and the target is redirected to the real site. That’s it. That’s how you hack.”
“Just like that?”
“Yuh.”
“Is this, like, common knowledge?”
He focused on the windshield.
“Do all your friends know how to do it?”
He frowned.
“You do know it’s wrong.”
That earned a defensive, “I didn’t say I did it.”
“But just so we’re sure, Chris, you do know it’s wrong.”
The guilty look on his face said he did. I left it at that.
We approached the ski slope, which seemed ridiculously innocent compared to the thoughts in my truck. So late in the day, it was a shadowed mass of evergreen spikes and gloomy swaths, some wide and straight, others narrow and curving out around the sides. Cables ran up the center of the hill, chairs dangling in a mild breeze, but otherwise all was still. That should have been ominous, but I had skied here enough for memory to add a gaggle of brightly colored parkas.
Chris Emory had taught me to ski. Oh, Grace would say it was her. And yes, she was the one who had made me do it. But after she got me outfitted and gave me brief instructions, she was skiing off, leaving bunny-land for steeper slopes.
Chris stayed with me. He wasn’t the best skier—wasn’t terribly coordinated, which was why Grace insisted he play hockey, like it would make him an athlete, like the coaches could make him a man. He did need male role models. But he never excelled on the ice any more than he did on the slopes. I always suspected that he loved teaching me to ski simply because it gave him an excuse to stay easy and slow.
The ski slope came and went. We drove on until I reached my turnoff, then the white post that marked Pepin Hill. I signaled, made the turn, and started up, all the while growing surer that this had been a confession. I should have been shocked, but was not. An odd part of me was proud that he excelled in this, at least. And to mess with the press? What he’d done to Ben Zwick was awful. But maybe, just maybe Ben deserved it.
Who to tell? Absolutely no one. Unless Michael had bugged my car, Chris’s confession went nowhere.
I was concerned about him, about Grace, about me. But I was also flattered that he had confided in me, regardless of what Michael Shanahan said. I had my reasons for hating the press. If Chris had done what he was being accused of, he had his. Sometime, somehow, they would come out.
Right now, my caring gene said that Chris needed a breather. In that regard, my pets were a godsend. He stayed outside while Jonah bounded in and out of the woods, then came in and gave Hex and Jinx two lanky legs to wind around. I could hear their purring from the kitchen. The therapy they offered was priceless.
“I want a pet,” Chris announced, bending over to scratch ears.
I had taken pizza from the freezer and was tossing a salad. “Ask your Mom.”
“Like I haven’t?” he returned, sounding annoyed. “She always says no. She says they tie you down. I keep telling her I’ll do the feeding and stuff, but it’s like she can’t handle anything more than me.”
She could barely handle him, I thought and, when his eyes met mine, knew he agreed. He looked away without saying the words, and actually said nothing more of substance until he’d eaten three huge pieces of the pizza, a large helping of salad, and half a dozen Oreos. We were cleaning up, me at the sink, him handing over glasses and plates, when he said, “She doesn’t have many friends.”
I put the last dish in the dishwasher. “She does.”
“Not like close friends, only you.” He paused. “Maggie?”
As I closed the dishwasher, I met his gaze and raised my brows in inquiry.
“You always talk to me like I’m a grown-up. I need you to do that now, because I don’t know who else to ask. Since all this happened, she’s been gone—I mean, like, not physically, at least, no more than she always is—but she’s, like, in another world, and she’s biting her nails. She