Page 51 of Web of Lies
AntiEyeshas its perks. A lot of them. When I first learned about it last year, it intrigued me, so much so, I did my research. From every keystroke to your emails, and down to your text messages,AntiEyeserases it immediately. Tucking the information away into a small part of your hard drive, covered in darkness, much like a black hole. With lots and lots of red tape hovering above it, blocking it from prying eyes. What goes into the deepest darkest depths of the black hole stays there. But much like gravity, what gets sucked into the shitty black hole must come back. And that’s exactly what my software does within a matter of ten minutes. It sucks every ounce of information out as if it were a vacuum and his privacy was the dirt it devoured.
The contacts hidden in the darkness come rolling out first. Dad. Cuntface—I’m guessing Piper. Gold digging whore. Hmm—maybe that’s his stepmother? Piper’s mom? Odd, though. Her mother comes from money. Maybe the divorce left her penniless? Then the names edge off into obscure names. Alpha. Omega. Beta. Delta. Dickhead. Douche canoe. Master Douchebag. Slug-eater. Pantylicker. I—mean—what the hell? Who gives their contacts these awful names? But I mean, if he’s looking for anonymity, then he’s got it.
Emails ping in next, followed by the internet searches, and then finally the holy grail flashes across my computer screen. The text messages. The emails show nothing of interest, like Hadley’s. It’s scholarship information, college information, and sports information. Seems, Carter is going to CaliState for soccer of all things. He doesn’t seem the type. More of the football type, like Seger and Zepp. He’s built for it. All that bulky muscle hiding beneath his rough exterior. My imagination conjures that angry, twisting sneer he wears so well, plowing players down left and right, scoring on his own. With his rage, he could easily be the only player on the field and probably win by fifty points.
When I finally dive into the text messages—my brain turns to mush—literal mush, like oatmeal. There’s so much here.
Pantylicker, Slug-eater, Alpha, and Omega, all have a group chat with him.
Pantylicker:
That shit was epic, wasn’t it?
Slug-eater:
Didn’t seem phased to me.
Omega: It was bullshit… she just walked away
Beta (Carter):
Just leave it be for now…. Alpha will be in touch.
Alpha:
Excellent job. I’ll be in touch later with further instructions.
Odd. It seems they are talking about me. Maybe? Was it the stinky poop in the locker? I’m surprised I haven’t gotten an email about that yet, like the door. The school’s hallway still smells like someone wiped their poop up and down the walls, anyway.
More messages like the ones above pour in over the next several minutes. I save every message on my computer so I can investigate it more. Plus, with new ones from mirroring his phone, I’ll never be out of the loop. Unless he realizes what I’ve done. Then—well —I’m roadkill. Probably worse than that. My body will be found in a ditch somewhere, rotting, because Carter is a ruthless psycho. Or he’ll dissolve my wrecked body in acid or something. I wonder if they still do that? I shake my head at the thoughts swirling about my death. No. He can’t kill me, can he? No. No, definitely not.
This Alpha though—Alpha means—the one in charge. Are they the ones pulling all the strings? Damn it, I wish I could hear phone calls! But what if?
I look up Alpha in his contacts and find the number associated with it. My tracer works quickly and efficiently, pinging me with the results within a minute. My heart stops at the name in front of me, it’s something I’ve never seen before.
The Apocalypse.
That’s it. That’s who it traced me to. There’s not a physical address. There’s nothing there. Just….The Apocalypse. So, what am I to think? Is this Alpha, the Apocalypse, the end to everything? To me? If he’s pulling the strings with a name like that, I’m thoroughly screwed.
Tristan:
I got an idea on how to trace that camera.
Me:
Finally, I thought you forgot about me. :)
Tristan:
I could never forget about you. Have faith, Addi.
Me:
All my faith is in you right now, Tristan. I really need some good news.
Tristan:
Are those fucking bastards giving you a hard time?
