Until the Day I Die(48)

“Go have fun, Erin,” Lach says. “You’re too uptight.” His phone rings, and he answers it with a “Yo, what’s the word?”

I look down at the clear water. The bread tie is resting beside what looks like a small white bone with bits of something translucent and stringy clinging to it. I move my hand a centimeter closer, stirring the sand into a cloud under the surface of the water. A chicken bone, maybe, from someone’s picnic.

When the sand settles, though, I see that it doesn’t really look like a chicken bone. It’s just the length of the last joint of my forefinger. And it looks human.





26

SHORIE

I spend Sunday messing around on the computer and trying to avoid Dele so I won’t have to pretend I’m excited about school, and then, suddenly, before I know it, it’s Monday, my first official day of college.

Of course, I’m not on my way to class. I’m hiding out in a booth at University Donut, watching backpack-laden students stream across campus and chowing down a Nutella old fashioned. I still can’t quite believe I’m doing this, ditching school. I was never even late for any of my high school classes. Now look at me.

After I review the daily server report for the third time and determine it’s clean, I check for an update on Ms. X. The balances in all her allotments look completely, frustratingly, normal. However, the next screenshot is another private message from Yours.

I wish we could be together right now.

The third shot shows one of Jax’s mustard-yellow bubble suggestions: Saks Fifth Avenue, The Summit, Birmingham, Chloé Quinty Leather Clogs, $795.00! Stella McCartney Slouchy Denim Boots, Preorder $995.00!

I sit there, staring at my phone like it’s a fucking Horcrux, and my heart does this jagged kind of dance inside my chest. I put down my half-eaten donut. I can see where Ms. X is—in Birmingham, shopping at Saks. Or at least walking past it on her way someplace else. But my hands are tied. I can’t just start digging into Jax’s servers or trying to crack the UUID number of this user. That’s totally against FDIC regulations. What I’m doing, spying on them, is already bad enough.

But I can’t help but think—if she’s in Birmingham, and she’s messing around on a server, it isn’t a stretch to think she might be an employee at Jax. We only have three women executives. Mom, Sabine, and Layton. But there are at least five other female employees who might be capable of this. Most of them don’t make the kind of money this woman does. Their salaries are nowhere near high enough to have allotments like this. Or maybe they have other income that I don’t know about. It’s possible.

It’s also possible, for that matter, that Ms. X is a man. A man who’s purchased women’s shoes and who’s in an illicit relationship. And he wouldn’t have to work at Jax to hack into the servers. So really, I shouldn’t rule out anything at this point. It’ll prevent me from examining clues with a truly open mind. I stuff my phone back in my purse and finish my donut.

That evening I find myself back downtown, wandering around trying to decide what I’m in the mood to eat. It’s entirely too early for dinner, but there’s not a whole lot to do when you’re a student who’s not actually attending school. Jax is doing its thing—pushing a yellow bubble on-screen every time I pass a restaurant. Have the chicken satay! it chirrups when I near a Thai place, $7.99 with a cucumber salad and a glass of hot green tea!

I keep going, then duck into a Tex-Mex place and find a table near the back. The server brings me a water and menu and nods at my phone.

“My boyfriend and I just got on it,” she says. “We love it so much. It’s totally gotten me out of debt in, like, six months, and now it’s helping us save for a wedding.”

I hadn’t realized I’d opened one of the screenshots of Ms. X’s Jax account. I cover the phone with a hand. “Oh, cool. But . . . don’t waste your money on a wedding. The entire industry is one giant scam. You should save it for a really incredible honeymoon instead. Or a down payment on a house in whatever neighborhood around you that has the fastest rising property values. Jax will tell you that too. Also, in the advanced settings, there’s an allocation for eloping.”

I shut my mouth abruptly. It’s like my mother is talking through me. Like she’s the ventriloquist, and I’m her dummy. Suddenly my eyes mist over, and I can’t swallow.

“You’re kidding me,” she says. “I had no idea. I haven’t really had a chance to explore all the extras.”

I nod mutely.

“Do you want me to come back?” the server asks.

“No. Um, what do you recommend?”

She cocks her head. “Well, everybody makes a big deal about the fish tacos, but you know they raise those tilapia in tanks where they eat their own poop. So, if I were you, I’d get on that vegetarian train, you know what I mean?”

“Okay, yeah. I’ll do that. And a tea as well, please.”

When she’s gone, I check my phone. To my surprise, this time there’s a long chain of message screenshots.

I feel like you’re slipping away, the first one reads. I can’t go forward with everything—I won’t—if YOU are not the reward at the end.

I’m not slipping away, comes the reply. I just don’t want to talk here. I told you, not on Jax.