Page 23 of Knight

"Did he? You have enough experience with how hackers work to know that?” His eyebrow lifts. “What exactly did he find in three weeks of looking deeper?"

"He tracked Michael's gaming accounts?—"

"Afteryoutold him which games to check. What else?"

"He found login attempts?—"

"On accounts you gave him access to." There’s an irritated bite to his tone. "What did he actually discover on his own?"

I open my mouth. Close it. Lick my lips, and try to remember specific evidence beyond the constant assurance that he was making progress.

"He was working on tracking things." The words sound hollow even to me. "He said the timing of Michael's disappearance wasn't random."

"When did he tell you that?"

"Last week. When I ..." The memory catches like glass in my throat. I'd been ready to give up. I’d messaged Knight at two A.M., exhausted and lonely, to tell him I couldn't keep hoping.

"Let me guess. You were about to stop looking?"

"How did you?—"

"Because that's the pattern." His voice carries an edge of impatience now. "Every time you started to lose hope, he'd hint at new leads … right? Keep you hanging on without actually giving you anything concrete."

"He’s a hacker. He had to protect his sources, in case the police decided to look deeper. He didn’t want them to get involved."

A sound that might be a laugh escapes him. "Sources. Right. Tell me about thebreakthroughthat brought you here."

"He said he found something in Horizon Tech's systems."

"How convenient. What exactly did he find?"

"He couldn't tell me over messages. He said?—"

"Told you it was too sensitive?" Another mocking laugh breaks up his words. "Had to be discussed in person, did it?"

"Yes!"

"At three A.M."

"He works odd hours."

"Perfect hours, really." He leans forward. "Always online exactly when you needed someone. Response times taking just long enough to seem natural. Supporting messages that gave you hope without actual evidence."

"Stop making it sound?—"

"Like everything was perfectly set up to match your needs?" Another laugh. "Tell me about these late night conversations. What helped you connect with him?"

"He lost someone too. His sister ..."

"Give me details. What was the deal with his sister? What was her name? Did you look her up? What happened to her? Older or younger than him? How long ago did she disappear?”

I reach for specifics, but find only vague references. Hints of shared pain without concrete information.

"He understood what I was going through." My voice wavers despite my attempt to stay strong. "He knew what it was like, searching and searching when everyone else gives up."

"Understanding isn't information." His eyes bore into mine. "Three weeks of conversations. All those late nights when you couldn't sleep, when you poured out your heart and soul to him, and you knownothingabout him other than the name and fucking cat memes, do you? Yet, he knew everything about you. You’re a hacker’s fucking wet dream. No effort required."

“That’s not true!” But his words burrow under my skin. I try to grasp something solid in all those messages. Some detail beyond his constant support and promises of progress.

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