Hidden (Nicole Jones #1)(19)

There is some truth to that.

I throw on one of his shirts, and he pulls on a T-shirt and a pair of running shorts as we turn on the laptop.

‘We can get access to the library’s wireless from here, since it’s just across the street and the signal is pretty strong,’ he explains. ‘We could technically use the inn’s wireless, but I would need to register, and we can’t have our names attached to anything.’

I think about his name and how that could be a red flag, unlike Nicole Jones, who is a ghost living on an island.

‘Why Zeke Chapman?’ I ask him.

He shrugs. ‘I needed a name. So did you.’

‘Have you been using it all this time?’ My throat feels as though it’s about to close up, and the words skitter through hoarsely.

‘If I didn’t run into you, and you found out someone named Zeke Chapman was here, you’d know it was me, right? I wanted to get your attention.’ He is staring straight at me, as if daring me to keep protesting.

I swallow the lump in my throat. ‘Well, you got it.’

‘Come on,’ he says, indicating the laptop. ‘Let’s get to work.’ He gives me a wink. ‘I know you want to.’

I don’t let on that I know what he’s doing as he shows me how to activate the Internet. Even though I have already done this, a surge of adrenaline rushes through me.

‘It’s addictive,’ he warns, but the smile playing at the corners of his mouth indicates he knows too well my addiction and he is teasing.

He shows me YouTube and Facebook and other things that I hadn’t even dreamed about before. This is new, and I am amazed at how much more there is now. He explains podcasts and I am in awe of the video quality.

I look up at one point to see him smiling at me curiously.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘You. It’s like a kid with an ice-cream cone. You should see the look on your face.’

I feel my neck and face grow hot, embarrassed. He reaches over and touches my cheek. ‘It’s cute,’ he says.

Another flashback to the same touch, the same words. I catch my breath, look back at the laptop and, wanting to keep my hands busy, put my fingers on the keyboard.

His hand covers mine, stopping me. ‘VPN,’ he reminds me, and he explains how to get in, how to set it up. I am ahead of him, but again allow him to think otherwise.

I don’t need him, my fingers flying, old passwords cluttering my head. I can’t use them, who knows who found them, who tried to track me down with them. Instead I remember a newspaper story about passwords, how to keep hackers away. Like me.

I chew on my lower lip as I put together letters that are gibberish to anyone except me. I am careful not to let him see my fingers as they move across the keyboard. He is smarter than he looks.

When I feel safe, I look up at him. A small, amused smile tugs at his mouth.

‘You look like you used to,’ he says.

I shrug, shaking him off. ‘Now what?’

‘I’ve got a username and password for us to use.’

‘Whose sign on are we using?’ I ask, immediately wary.

‘Not important.’

‘Yes, it is.’ He is setting someone up.

He shakes his head. ‘You have to forget about before. It’s the same this time, but different. You’ll see.’

‘So tell me.’

His face grows dark. ‘Tell you what?’

‘The username and password.’ This is not what he was expecting me to ask, but I can’t figure out what else he is thinking of. ‘Can’t do anything unless you tell me.’

His face brightens. ‘Oh.’ He recites both for me.

‘Write it down,’ I instruct.

‘Nothing in writing.’

‘So where do I go from here?’

He looks confused, as if I should already know, but the username and password are both useless unless I know which site to go to. I wonder if it’s the bank again, but when I start to ask, he gets up suddenly, jostling the bed, and I steady myself, watching him cross the room and look out the window toward the water. A sliver of blue sky peeks through the space between his silhouette and the curtain, beckoning me. I suddenly want to go outside, climb on my bike and ride around the island, visiting my favorite places, my friends. They are slipping through my fingers with each keystroke.

‘Did he tell you where I was?’ I ask his back, pushing aside the reason for being here.

He turns to look at me. ‘No, he never told me.’

‘He didn’t know,’ I say. ‘Really.’

He gives me a funny look. ‘I saw the postcard.’

I gather the courage to look him in the eye, pushing up my glasses as I raise my face toward his. I’d bought the postcard when I’d seen in the newspaper that he was dying. I picked out the nicest one I could find, one with the North Light on it, the sea shimmering behind it, the hues of the sunset illuminating the lighthouse. I didn’t sign it. I didn’t write a message. I just mailed it to him, wanting to send the peace I’d found to him.

‘How did you know it was from me?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Why did you think it was?’

He smiles. ‘I’ve never stopped looking for you.’

‘But you really just want my help. Help that you, for some reason, think only I can give you.’