Dark Secret - Avelyn Paige Page 0,16

I need help with programming my rocket launch sequence. Please, H?

It’s the last one that piques my interest, dated for this morning, hours before she disappeared, per Shelby.

P4r4D0X: Can’t wait for later!

Bingo. I pull up her account history and see that she’s talked to this particular user a lot. More than a lot—every single day. I try to open some of the past conversations, but an error pops up when I click on them. I click on his username, but the information is blank, which isn’t surprising, since nowadays, game developers have built safeguards for kids from sharing their personal information, which begs the question: how did they go from online to offline?

Mulling it over, I lean back in my chair. If there are safeguards, like I assume, she had to have figured out a way to get around them. I pull up the chat with BearClaw220 to test my theory. I type in a fake phone number, and as soon as I hit enter, the number is replaced with stars in the chat box. I try a fake address this time, and the same thing happens. How did they go from online to offline if Shelby’s suspicions are right? Furthermore, why wasn’t she monitoring her computer time? No child at Hayden’s age should have free access to a computer without some kind of parental lock or supervision. The online world is dangerous for kids. If Shelby is right about where Hayden may be, there’s only one question I have.

Why didn’t she protect our daughter?

Shelby

I’m sound asleep when the door to my bedroom crashes open, causing my heart to nearly leap out of my chest. “What the hell?” I cry, sitting up in bed, suddenly wide awake.

Lorna stands in the hallway, barely visible over a hulking Wyatt, who’s already moving toward my bed. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I tried to stop him.”

“I’m done being stopped by you fucking people,” Wyatt snaps at her, flinging the door closed.

I scowl as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. “You didn’t have to be so rude.”

Wyatt snorts and folds his arms over his broad chest. “Like hell. That old witch is part of the reason I don’t know about my own damn kid. Besides, you have to show respect to get it, and she’s never shown me any of that.”

I suddenly become aware of the situation I’m in at this moment. A tiny room, a single bed, wearing nothing but a white tank top and pink panties. “Can you wait in the hallway?” I rasp, pulling the blanket up to cover myself.

He smirks. “What’s wrong, Shel? Don’t want me to see you without a bra? I mean, it’s not like I haven’t seen them before.”

“Just go wait in the hall,” I hiss, tossing a pillow at his head.

Snatching it out of the air, he chuckles as he disappears through the door, closing it behind him. Asshole.

As soon as I hear the latch click, I hop off the bed and rush to my overnight bag. I dig through it, pulling out an off-white bra and a worn pair of jeans. I use the en suite bathroom and quickly brush my teeth and wash my face.

My purple-hued hair is short, and takes only a little effort to have it laying just right. Deciding to forgo the make-up, I slip my hand through a dozen or so silver bangles and open the bedroom door.

Wyatt’s gaze starts down at my toes and slowly glides back up to my face. “You don’t look much different, other than all the tattoos.”

I love tattoos. There’s something about commemorating important events in your life, or showing the world your soul through permanent art on your skin. It’s always fascinated me.

“I own a shop,” I inform him. “That way, when I run out of places on my own skin, I can ink up other people.” I look him up and down. “I see you still don’t have any.”

“This body is a fucking temple. No way in hell is anything important enough to make me desecrate it.”

I scan the body he so casually referred to, and he’s right. It is a temple. It’s chiseled, hard, and broad, and easily the sexiest male body I’ve ever seen. I’d love the opportunity to mark it with my tattoo gun—amongst other things.

“See something you like?”

Shit. “What exactly are you doing here at…”—I check my phone. Wow, I’d definitely been tired—“…eleven o’clock in the morning?”

Wyatt takes in my bedroom in all its early millennium