Hidden (Nicole Jones #1)(43)

Zeke knew who Ian was. Zeke had told me himself. He told me he could protect me as long I testified against Ian. But I was scared and not sure I could believe him. He was pushing me to tell him who Ian’s source was at the bank, but I could honestly say I knew nothing about that. Zeke didn’t believe me.

What if after Zeke was killed and I left Ian in Paris, Ian decided to get even with me? What if he went to the FBI and told them he’d help them find me, told them it was all me? What if they gave him protection, and his ‘death’ was staged?

I mentally slap myself. I am paranoid. But what if I’m right?

Still, it has taken him fifteen years to find me. Would the FBI wait that long? I don’t know enough about how witness protection works to even guess.

I see the file that Tracker has left me, and I download it. The list of names springs up on the screen, momentarily distracting me. I immediately find Paul Michaels.

My memory slips back to that day when Ian and I were in bed, brainstorming names we would get on our fake passports.

‘Are you sure you can get them?’ he asked, his arm slung around me as he nuzzled my neck.

I leaned in toward him. ‘I can do anything,’ I promised, and he smiled.

‘I’ve always wanted to be a Paul,’ he said. ‘Would you love me as a Paul?’

‘I would love you as anything.’ It was before Zeke, before the job. We knew we would need fake IDs if it all fell apart. We were getting our ducks in a row; we wanted to be prepared for anything.

‘Will they be authentic?’

I rolled away from him and pretended to pout. ‘You have no faith in my abilities.’

‘I know what I have faith in,’ he said, grabbing me and pulling me toward him. Three days later, we had the passports and the money. But we didn’t use the passports for another month.

I look back at the list of names, which takes up two screens. I wonder about the alias. I find it again and stare at it, as if it will start telling me something if I wait long enough.

Tracker is still here. I put my hands on the keys, my head racing, and begin to type.

I want current account information for Paul Michaels. Also addresses and any information we can get. I know I can do a Google search, but I need more than Google can give me. I already have a Social, but I need everything to find out who Paul Michaels is, if he is, in fact, a real person. There’s a FAQ form on the website.

Before I can say more, Tracker’s message appears. Source code.

I am a step ahead of him for the first time, pulling up the source code for the web page on Jeanine’s computer. I scan it. Just as I suspected. A file name for the template of the form. I find what I’m looking for and substitute another code, which brings up the password file for the server.

Be careful of shadows, Tracker has typed. He knows what I am doing. He may likely be doing the same thing.

But I don’t see any sign of shadows, which is when a system is spying on itself to make sure someone isn’t getting into areas they’re not supposed to.

Problem is I now merely have a list of passwords. I need the one for the firewall. I have to get behind it, add a port that I can use to get in easily to start my search.

I’m running a search, Tracker writes, verifying that he’s gotten the same list. It’s almost as if we are one person doing this. It could take a while.

I don’t have ‘a while,’ but some things can’t be rushed. This could take an hour or three days. Or longer.

I create a new tab on my laptop and, just for my own peace of mind, do a Google search on Paul Michaels.

It seems to be a popular name, and I scan the sites, but nothing pops out at me. And then I have another thought. I type in ‘Amelie Renaud.’ That was the name on my passport, the one I used to get to Paris.

I can barely see the search results because my head begins to spin. I switch to the file that Tracker sent me. The one with the list of account owners we’d stolen from.

I scan through the list until I find it.

Amelie Renaud.

I frantically try to remember how I came up with that name, pulling memories out of my head like socks out of a drawer. Ian, after our discussion about whether I’d love him as a Paul, telling me that I remind him of an Amelie, a childhood friend. He said I should have a French last name. Renaud was good, he’d said.

I take note of the Social Security number for Amelie Renaud. It isn’t mine. Whose is it? Is there really an Amelie Renaud? Is it just a coincidence?

I toss that thought aside. There is nothing coincidental about any of this.

A light tap on the door startles me, and before I can close the laptops, Jeanine comes in. She wears a frown, her arms crossed over her chest.

‘Nicole? It’s been hours.’

I glance at the clock on the screen and see that it has – it’s supper time. I can’t log off the search, though, it has to keep running. ‘Is it OK if I stay here tonight?’ I ask. I glance over at the massage table in the corner. ‘I can sleep there. It’s fine.’ I am not going to sleep.

Jeanine comes closer, not trying to see what’s on the computer screen, but staring at my face as if she’s never seen me before.

I’m not sure she has. This person sitting in front of two computer screens in the dark, this person is me. The real me. I have left Nicole Jones behind, with her bike and her paintings and her cozy little house.