Page 64 of Man of the Year

Not a freaking chance. “Yes, sir, in a second. I’m going to do your neck, loosen it up, then carry on as you please.”

I won’t. Because I know how the drug works. I was curious about Rosenberg’s temper, but it’s for the best that it doesn’t show. And it won’t, because two minutes later, the asshole is fast asleep.

Good.

I wipe my hands on my pants like I just touched something dirty and carefully reach for Rosenberg’s phone.

There might be cameras here. If I get caught, I’ll say I was curious and bored and was watching him sleep, making sure he’s okay. Stupid? For sure. But I can play stupid. Been there, done that. I’ll even cuddle up to him while I’m on his phone so I can hide it between us and take pictures of anything I find on it with my own phone and do research later.

Rosenberg’s phone is fingerprint-protected, and that’s just perfect. I knew that getting into his office computer would be impossible. No one ever has a chance at guessing a password to a stranger’s computer unless it’s 12345.

But the newest fingerprint protection is great. I gently pick up Rosenberg’s motionless hand and press one of his fingers to the phone. The screen lights up.

Excited and petrified at what I might find, I open the photo folder.

There are only twenty or so photos—Rosenberg in a restaurant, with other people, suits, ties, and evening dresses, probably investors, then a photo of the half-naked chick from social media, but this time, it’s not a professional shot but a selfie.

And that’s it.

Disappointed, I look for any other folders with documents, potentially fingerprint-secured, but there are none.

Huh.

I go to the message folder. The only messages on the phone are from someone called “My Dove,” which I assume is the model, and they are all from today. I read the chat, but it’s the boring “Miss you,” “When do I see you again?” “Want to play?” “How’s business?”—mostly from her, whereas Rosenberg responds in curt replies, “I’ll call you soon.”

Phone call history—none, except for today’s. There are several phone calls from “The Driver.” Must be Nick. Another one is from “My Dove.”

That’s it. The guy freaking cleans his history every day. Whodoesthat? Unless they have something to hide. Or they’re hiding from someone. Unless… they’re up to no good and don’t want to get busted.

I open the IxResearch app. Rosenberg’s account is fingerprint-protected. I take Rosenberg’s hand and press his finger to the square with a prompt.

“Good evening, Mr. Geoffrey Rosenberg!” the screen says and shifts to the dashboard.

But the dashboard is not what I expected.

Crypto wallet—0.

Funds—0.

Trading score—0.

Transactions and invoices—none.

What the hell?

My mind scrambles to make sense of this. Something is very, very wrong with this scenario.

I go to Rosenberg’s social media. The first app goes straight to the log-in screen, but when I pressUsername, it doesn’t give me a prompt for the previous usernames used.

I go to the next app—same thing, like he’s never used it, or it was reset.

Next one—he’s logged in. Bingo! The picture is a black circle, username @JkllnHyde. If this is a reference to Jekyll and Hyde, it’s definitely on point. Most people Rosenberg follows are celebrities and notable public figures. His follower count is 0. Posts—0.

I open a web browser and search the history. There are multiple links, mostly news blogs, but the search history only shows today’s activity. Any IT tech could’ve pulled the scraped info off his phone to see what he deleted. But I’m not a pro.

I thoroughly go through his phone like a detective, checking every download folder, recent files, screenshots, including the caches and trash—nothing. I check the settings and see that the phone is not backed up to any server, doesn’t have the sign-in info, not even the service provider login.

This man has no trace of anything he’s done online. No digital footprint. This is hard to pull off these days. It’s especially bizarre because the guy is a genius in the digital world.

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