Page 20 of Hunt Me
She let me see her face.
Seven hours into the search, I find her.
Not through sophisticated algorithms or dark web contacts. Through a goddamn high school yearbook digitized by some well-meaning alumni association.
Iris Mitchell, the caption reads.Senior Class President. Full Scholarship to Stanford.
I stare at the photo until my vision blurs.
It’s her at eighteen, but unmistakably her. Same platinum blonde hair, though shorter. Same ice-blue eyes that seem to see right through the camera lens. The smile’s different, less guarded. Almost genuine.
Before she learned to weaponize everything.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling with something between elation and disbelief.
She gave me her real name.
What kind of arrogant, reckless genius uses their actual identity while conducting espionage? While breaching some of the most secure systems in the northeastern corridor?
The same kind who walks into a gala and introduces herself to her target’s face.
I download the yearbook, then the one before it. Junior year shows her in the computer club, surrounded by awkward teenage boys who probably had no idea they were sitting next to a future cybercriminal. Sophomore year, she accepts a math award and shakes hands with a principal who looks proud.
Lincoln High School. Providence, Rhode Island.
Not even that far. A ninety-minute drive.
I’m already pulling up property records, cross-referencing addresses, and building a timeline. The Mitchells lived at 847 Maple Street until Iris was seventeen. Then the house sold—quick, well below market value. Parents listed as deceased in public records.
Both died in a car accident.
Convenient.
My pulse kicks up. There’s a story here, something that explains how a Stanford-bound prodigy ends up haunting the dark web with a vendetta against my family specifically.
Because it is personal. Must be. The way she looked at me at that gala wasn’t just a professional assessment. There was recognition underneath the performance. Hatred, maybe. Or something more complicated.
I need more.
Stanford’s security is laughable.
Twenty minutes to crack their archived student database. Another fifteen for medical records—turns out hospitals love using the same password schemes they did a decade ago.
Iris Mitchell. Full-ride scholarship. Double major in Computer Science and Applied Mathematics. Graduated summa cum laude at twenty-one with a thesis on quantum encryption that probably laid the groundwork for half her current exploits.
Medical records show routine checkups, one concussion sophomore year—sports injury, flag football of all things—and a prescription for sleeping pills that’s been renewed quarterly for the past seven years.
Interesting.
The Phantom has nightmares.
I download everything, building a profile that grows more fascinating with each file. She’s brilliant, obviously. But there’s a darkness threading through it all. Gaps in her timeline that don’tadd up. A six-month period after graduation where she vanishes completely from digital records.
Then reappears working for a cybersecurity firm in D.C.
Government contractor, probably. NSA or CIA recruitment right out of college fits her skill set.
Something happened there. Something that sent her underground.
