Page 21 of Hunt Me
The current address pops up in a utility cross-reference: 1247 Commonwealth Avenue, Unit 4B, Beacon area. Upscale but not flashy. Close enough to BU that she probably blends in with the graduate student crowd.
Close enough to our Beacon Hill mansion that she’s been practically next door this whole time.
The irony makes me want to laugh. Or scream.
Her last known phone number takes more work—a burner trail through three different carriers before I find the current line. Active. Used sparingly, mostly encrypted messaging apps.
I set up a secure channel, routing through enough proxies that even she’ll have trouble tracing it back immediately.
My fingers pause over the keys.
This is the moment. Once I send this message, she’ll know I found her. Know that I’m not just some incompetent target she can toy with from the shadows.
The game changes.
I type fast before I can second-guess myself.
Sloppy work at the gala, Iris. Using your real name? Expected better from the Phantom. Though I enjoyed our conversation. We should do it again sometime. Maybe somewhere without quite so many cameras you’d have to spoof. -A
My thumb hovers over send.
Then presses.
The message has been delivered. Then read.
I watch the screen, pulse hammering against my ribs, waiting for her response.
The three dots appear immediately.
She’s typing.
My entire body locks up, muscles coiled tight as I watch those dots pulse. Disappear. Reappear.
Finally, her response comes through.
Cute. You ran facial recognition on yearbook photos and think you cracked the code. That’s adorable, really. Here I thought you were supposed to be the family genius. Disappointing.
My jaw clenches hard enough my teeth ache.
Found your address too. Your real phone number. Your entire Stanford transcript. Want me to keep going?
The dots pulse again. Longer this time.
You found what I let you find, Alexi. Every breadcrumb is carefully placed. You think I’d use security footage I didn’t control? Stand in front of you without ten exit strategies? Please.
She follows it with another message before I can respond.
That yearbook’s been online for six years. Public record. If I cared about hiding my identity, do you really think it would take you seven hours to find a high school photo?
Fuck.
My fingers fly across the keys.
So, you wanted me to find you.
No. I wanted to see how long it would take. Seven hours is... underwhelming. I had bets with myself you’d crack it in four. Maybe I’ve been overestimating the competition.
The words hit like a slap. My vision tunnels on the screen, rage building hot and sharp in my chest.
