Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 69327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
“Oh yeah?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she confirmed. “Man, the kid is a genius. I couldn’t hide stuff this well at his age.”
“You mean Winston’s computer guy?” I asked.
“Yes,” she answered. “He’s really good. In a few years, he’s going to be better than me.”
That was a feat that not many people could boast about.
Folsom was good. I’d heard of no one who could get into places like she could.
But also, I wasn’t really in the hacking world ‘in’ crowd.
I wouldn’t know if she was good or bad, but based on what she could find us when we needed it, I knew that she was good at what she did.
For her to give that kind of compliment to Winston’s man meant that he was really good, if not great.
“So did you find anything?” I asked after she’d been silent for a solid five minutes.
“Not a single thing,” she answered. “Though I did just get a Google hit, of all things. The wife’s name is Carissa Osborn. The article stated that she was committed to a mental institution in McKinney, then moved to a state penitentiary.”
“Oh,” I said. “That’s horrible.”
I wondered if that was why he was so closed off.
In all the information I’d gathered on him tonight using photos, none of them had a woman in them anywhere.
He’d been alone in every single one.
“What does the article say?” I asked.
My phone pinged.
I opened up the article just as she said, “I have to go. Kobe made dinner and now he’s threatening to throw it away because I’m ignoring him. I think he really might, though. So, if I find anything else after I’m done, I’ll send it your way.”
Then she was gone, almost as if she’d never been there in the first place.
I rolled my eyes, used to her abrupt departures, and went back to reading the article.
Wife of Winston Osborn incarcerated for murder at thirty-one.
Carissa Osborn, wife of billionaire tech giant Winston Osborn, was moved from McKinney State Health Institution to the state penitentiary in Shivley, Texas.
As of right now, no news is forthcoming on the switch, and we’re waiting for responses from Osborn and family. All have declined to comment since her entrance into the psychiatric facility.
I went to Google and tried to find more to no avail.
Winston really was a ghost. I was surprised I—Folsom—found what she did.
I did go back to Insta and put in a few different hashtags, including #bookboyfriend.
I didn’t find anything more—because holy hell did romance authors post a shit ton of #bookboyfriend inspiration—and soon decided that my next course of action needed to be some surveillance.
I’d just gotten myself dressed in a pair of black, skintight leggings—they were super stretchy to accommodate my distended belly from my copious rows of Oreos last night—a cropped black t-shirt, white slouchy socks, and white canvas Nikes, when Folsom called back.
“His computer hacker is almost as good as I am,” Folsom declared. “And I say almost, because he’s younger than me, and doesn’t have as much time under his belt as me. I’m sure that in a couple of years, he’ll be right there with me. But for now, I’m totally better.”
I walked back to the counter where my abandoned Oreos lay and dug back in.
“So does ‘totally better’ mean that you found something? Anything?” I asked.
I was on row two of Oreos, and there was no end in sight.
That diet that I was to maintain for my marathon training had taken a nosedive out of a fifth-floor window.
Not only had I had Freebirds, the best burrito place in the world, for dinner, I’d then followed it up with an ice cream cone from Andie’s, then a family-size cobbler from Cowboy Chicken. And now, hours later, I was eating my second row of Oreos.
There was no way in hell I was going to fit in my uniform tomorrow.
Luckily, it was a practice show, and I had plenty of time to get into the real uniform for the promotional videos that Hades was about to start shooting.
“Nothing,” she said. “I just wanted to call and tell you this guy is a ghost. All those photos you found of him—they’re disappearing by the second. It’s like you looking at them made them self-destruct or something.”
“I wonder if that’s just something they do, all day every day. I don’t think me looking at them would cause them to be taken down that fast,” I pointed out.
“Whatever the reason, five have disappeared in the last thirty minutes,” she explained.
“It hasn’t even been thirty minutes,” I stated the obvious.
“Whatever,” she said. “Are you going somewhere?”
Again, I was unsurprised that she’d hacked into my phone’s camera. She really didn’t know what boundaries were.
“I’m going sleuthing,” I said. “At a particular business guy’s fancy shmancy office.”
“Have fun,” she said. “If you can get in on the ground floor in the back, you can bypass security.”