Page 23 of Slap Shot
She stared at the empty folders on her laptop screen, trying to push past her emotional reaction and focus on the technical details. Something nagged at her about the deletion. As she began analyzing the access logs more carefully, subtle inconsistencies began to emerge. The syntax was correct but lacked Oliver's typical shortcuts. The file targeting was accurate but showed none of his usual efficiency patterns. Her pulse quickened as she found more discrepancies. This wasn't Oliver's work. This was someone who had studied his methods but wasn't actually him. The access logs were prominent, thetimestamps convenient, the trail of suspicion leading directly to Oliver unmistakable.
Too unmistakable.
The timing was suspicious enough to implicate Oliver but not so obvious as to seem fake. The access method was sophisticated enough to seem like his work but contained just enough small errors to be traced back to him.
Heather had spent years hunting hackers, and the good ones never left such obvious breadcrumbs. This wasn't the work of someone trying to hide their tracks. This was the work of someone trying to create tracks that led directly to Oliver.
While it looked on the surface that the breech had occurred in person, an hour of digging showed her that her computer was accessed remotely. Someone had orchestrated this entire scenario, and she'd played right into their hands.
Oliver wasn't the perpetrator. He was the target. Someone had deliberately framed him, and she'd fallen for it completely. The pattern was suddenly clear, and it made her sick. She'd done exactly what David's betrayal had trained her to do—assume the worst about someone who'd given her access to their vulnerabilities. Her trauma had created a hair trigger for betrayal, making her see threats where none existed while completely missing the real danger lurking in plain sight.
What had she done?
She buried her face in her hands and cried.
Chapter Seven
Heather
She barely got through work today. She didn’t want to interrupt Oliver when he was practicing, and she was too much of a chicken shit to text him. But later that night, Heather stood outside Oliver's apartment building, laptop bag clutched in one hand and a six-pack of beer in the other. She'd driven here straight from the office, but now that she was actually here, the words she'd rehearsed felt inadequate.
How do you apologize for accusing someone of being a thief? How do you explain that you'd let your own fear of getting close to someone again cloud your judgment?
The answer was simple: you showed up and told the truth, no matter how much it bruised your pride.
Heather pressed the buzzer for apartment 4B.
"Yeah?" Oliver's voice came through the intercom, cautious.
"It's me. Heather. I know you probably don't want to see me right now, but I need to show you something. Please."
There was a long pause, and Heather held her breath, half expecting him to tell her to leave. Instead, the door buzzed open.
Oliver was waiting in his doorway, wearing dark jeans and a gray henley that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. Charlie stood beside him, wagging his tail tentatively. The dog, at least, seemed happy to see her.
"You were right," she said without preamble. "About everything. I should have asked instead of assuming. I should have trusted you enough to give you a chance to explain."
Oliver's expression didn't change, but she caught the slight relaxation in his posture. "Come in."
His apartment was clean and comfortable, with a massive wall-mounted TV that was playing old hockey games. But what caught her attention was the glimpse of another room through a partially open door—banks of monitors and equipment that looked like mission control.
"Beer?" Oliver asked, noting the six-pack in her hand.
"Peace offering." She handed it to him, then pulled out her laptop. "But first, I need to show you what I found after you left."
They settled on his couch, Charlie positioning himself between them like a furry mediator. Heather opened her laptop and pulled up the code analysis she'd spent hours perfecting.
"You were being framed," she said. "Someone studied your old techniques extensively, then created fake evidence designed to make you look guilty. Look at this."
She walked him through her discoveries, the subtle differences in coding style, the too-convenient placement of evidence, the way the signatures screamed Oliver's identity without actually being his work.
Oliver studied the data with the same focus she'd seen him bring to hockey, occasionally asking technical questions that showed he understood exactly what she was showing him. When she finished, he leaned back against the couch cushions.
"How long did it take you to figure this out?" he asked.
"Too long." Heather closed the laptop, shame burning in her chest. "I should have caught it immediately. The evidence was too obvious, too conveniently placed. Any decent security professional would have been suspicious."
"But you weren't thinking like that," Oliver said. "You were thinking like someone who'd been hurt before."
