Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 169272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Hannah will most likely grapple with PTSD for some period of time, but she told me via text she’s already planning treatment for that. However long it takes, whatever she needs, I’ll be right by her side. Supporting her. Loving her. Giving her a shoulder to cry on and an ear to fill. Assuming she wants me there. My greatest fear is that I’ll finally get to see Hannah, and she’ll have decided she doesn’t want anything to do with me, since I’m the one who summoned this shit storm in the first place.
“Are you going to catch some heat for the hacking you did to Greg Smith?” Reed asks in a whisper. We’ve been keeping our voices low during this car ride, so our driver won’t overhear us. He’s a special agent, and therefore presumably in the know about the details of our involvement here, but better safe than sorry.
I shake my head. “My FBI bestie said she’s designated me as a confidential informant.”
“She can do that?”
I nod. “She recently took a big chance hiring me for a really high-level project, and she doesn’t want it getting out the guy she placed that much trust in for a job that big is a loose cannon who’d recklessly hack a romance scammer for sport, simply to avenge his girlfriend.”
“Sounds like your FBI bestie is a good friend to have.”
It’s an understatement. After my first call with her today, Deputy Director Leach immediately hopped a flight from DC to Seattle, and she’s been deftly overseeing the investigation ever since. Under her capable leadership, her team on the ground quickly obtained a search warrant for a small dwelling near the barn where Greg Smith held Hannah, and what they gathered there has been a “treasure trove” of evidence, I’m told. My FBI connection couldn’t give me any details over the phone, but she uncharacteristically said she was “eager” to update me in person.
Reed asks, “So, if you didn’t hack Greggy-poo, according to the official version of events, then what motivated him to kidnap Hannah?”
That’s an easy one, since I’ve already discussed it with Deputy Director Leach. I reply, “Greggy-poo saw Hannah at the Climb & Conquer party by chance, and after covertly observing her gallivanting with her billionaire best friends, he started stalking her online afterwards, out of curiosity and envy. When he saw she was living the kind of life he wanted for himself, he became increasingly full of rage toward her, so he hatched his plan.”
“Sounds plausible enough,” Reed says. “More plausible than the truth, actually. The guy was definitely full of rage.”
“Yes, he was. May he rot in hell.”
Our car pulls into a parking garage attached to the FBI building, and I nearly leap out before it’s come to a full stop. Reed and I are bustled out of the car and brought through a back entrance. As we’re striding with our escorts down a long hallway under fluorescent lights, my phone pings with a text from Hannah.
“Hannah’s finished giving her statement,” I report excitedly. “Perfect timing.”
We’re led into an elevator. As we ascend, nobody speaks. Anticipation in the small space is thick. Anxiety, too. At least, on my part. In fact, it’s skating across my skin and churning my stomach. What if Hannah’s been processing everything that’s happened since our brief conversation after her rescue, and she’s now decided she wants nothing to do with me? Amid the chaos right after the raid, Hannah yelled the four most beautiful words in the English language—“I love you, Henny!”—but what if she’s changed her mind about that, now that she’s had some time to reflect on my culpability?
When we exit the elevator, we’re led down another hallway to a closed door. The agent opens it for us, and there she is. Hannah Banana Montana la Plátana Milliken. The great love of my life. Wrapped in a blanket, looking pale and small and disheveled—like a little sea otter that’s been through a storm.
“Hannah.” I rush to her, completely forgetting the plan I’d formulated in the car to let her dictate the terms of our reunion. To my relief, Hannah springs up and hurls herself into my waiting arms. As I wrap her up, she breaks down in sobs, so I hold her close and kiss her hair and whisper that I love her. That I’m sorry. That everything is going to be okay.
After a while, we disengage from our embrace and discover we’re now alone in the small room with the door closed. Apparently, everyone here earlier decided to give us some privacy.
We sit down on a couch and talk furiously for several minutes. I apologize again and again, and Hannah says this wasn’t my fault, that Greg Smith made ridiculous leaps of logic that nobody could have foreseen.
“I should have told you I knew about him,” I insist. “I shouldn’t have held that information back from you.”