Page 120 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
Deacon already ran the carrier.
The same VOIP issued a number that sent a text to a courier last week, telling him to leave a bakery crate in a lobby “for pickup.”
The courier ignored it and marked delivered.
The VOIP number paid a late fee.
The card on file ends with the same four digits as the shell LLC’s payment method.
I pull another file, the one I did not want to open unless I had to.
Credit pulls.
Deacon flagged three in her name from companies she never touched.
One is a department store card.
One is a personal line of credit.
One is a gas card.
The email on two of them uses her first initial and last name with a number she only used in high school.
I know it because she once told me her first email address by accident while she laughed at herself.
The recovery phone number ends in 17.
Nico’s last two digits.
He liked vanity numbers.
He also liked control.
I line everything up.
The board posts offering petty sabotage.
The duplicate payout rerouting small deposits into his pocket.
The anonymous complaints to put a cloud over her name.
The soft identity theft moving through the system like bad wiring.
The pressure is not loud.
It is constant.
It is the kind that convinces a woman she is unlucky when she is being hunted.
On the second monitor I keep the external cameras looping.
The south porch feed skips three minutes during last night’s wind.
The timestamp stutters.
When it returns, a shape is crossing the edge of the orchard, not close enough to hurt, close enough to promise.
I mark the frame and save it.
