Until the Day I Die(61)

“Maybe,” I say, rubbing my temples. My mind is such a jumble, I’ve got a headache now.

“Okay, let’s back up,” Rhys says. “We know Ben is involved, somehow. I think you should just sit tight, watch your Jax account for a little while, and see what happens. Back up the screenshots, all of them, online and maybe on a hard drive.”

I open my email again and nearly choke.

“What?” asks the blonde girl, leaning forward.

“The screenshots. All the balances are back down where they were before,” I say. “The money’s gone again.”

Lowell whistles. “How much?”

“Roughly one hundred sixty thousand dollars, just like last time. Which divides out to approximately twelve cents from every Jax user. That means whoever this is has now taken over three hundred twenty grand.” They all gape at me. “Or more. Those are just the two times I’ve seen the money come in and go out.”

“And this time it took longer for the balances to go down, right?” Lowell says.

“Yeah. Overnight,” I say.

“She’s varying her routine. She doesn’t want to call attention to her account,” Rhys says. Our eyes meet.

“It’s really happening,” I breathe. “They’re stealing from Jax’s customers.”

Lowell shakes his head. “No offense, but it’s kind of weird that you don’t have any stopgaps in place. People are always looking for opportunities, you know? You got to stay on top of that kind of thing or you’re pretty much asking for it.”

I roll my eyes at him. “Thanks for the advice. I forgot who I’m talking to—the real professional criminals.”

The blonde girl gives me a head wag. “That’s rude. Aren’t you one of Rhys’s customers, though? I mean, aren’t you paying to have somebody take all your classes for you?”

Rhys’s face kind of freezes, and Lowell looks embarrassed. The blonde girl leans back on the couch.

“I’m not stealing from millions of people,” I spit back. “It’s not even close to the same thing.”

“Look—” Rhys starts.

“You said it was, like, twelve cents from each person,” the girl interrupts. “I’ve got three times that at the bottom of my purse.”

I jump up and stalk to the door. On the front porch I drop into a swing and kick it into a furious sway. It squeaks, but the motion is calming, almost narcotic. I tip my head back, but there are no stars, just the cobwebby gray board-and-batten porch ceiling. I could sway here forever, the breeze wafting over me. The breeze that smells faintly like cow pies, but still. It’s quiet.

The glider thunks as Rhys drops down beside me. He lays his head back like me too. “Holy smokes, that’s a lot of spiders.”

I can’t help but smile.

“They could drop down on us at any time. Spiders on our faces. It’s like a horror movie up there on my porch ceiling.”

“You know, there are many spider heroes in ancient mythology. According to Islamic legend, a spider saved Muhammad from the people who were trying to kill him.”

He gives me a sidelong glance, and I get the distinct feeling he knows this is one of the ways I deflect, going full-on nerd and dumping information on people. What I didn’t tell him was that I got bit by a spider once, and ever since I’ve imagined that I became a hero myself, like Peter Parker. Imbued with all a spider’s very best traits. Hardworking, solitary, aggressive when necessary.

I clear my throat. “I didn’t mean what I said. Earlier.”

“Sure you did. That’s what I like about you. You tell it like it is. And so does Mackenzie. She’s cool, I promise.”

“If you say so.” I sigh. “I didn’t mean to come across so bitchy.”

“It’s okay. You were right. I’m . . .” He stares at the pasture beyond the house. There’s one cow, a brownish-red one, that’s staring back at us. “I know what I’m doing, and some days I’m less proud of it than others. They’ll figure it out, what I’m doing, one day, and then . . . I don’t know. I’m not a Bond villain. I’m just a kid who’s terrible at school but good at making money.”

“But your dad died. You have to make money.”

He laughs. “Yeah, not really. My dad had a ton of life insurance. My mom lives in a huge house down in Florida. And my little sister goes to the most expensive art school in the southeast. I’m a privileged white kid, making money by scamming the system. I’m everything people hate. Everything that’s unfair in the world.”

“Then why don’t you stop?”

He looks at me, studies me really, his brown eyes on mine. “I like feeling like I can take care of myself. Like I’m not a loser.” He says it quietly, then breaks our gaze and folds his arms over his chest. I get the feeling he’s telling me something he hasn’t told anybody else.

The air has stilled on the porch, and I can hear something buzzing around us. A mosquito or yellow jacket or wasp. The sound reminds me of a kitchen timer, one the universe has set. It’s like the minutes are ticking by, the possibilities narrowing, and if I let the moment go much longer, the timer will ding, and I’ll be shit out of luck. I roll my head in Rhys’s direction, meeting his eyes again. He’s close; it would only take the slightest movement to cross the couple of inches between us.