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I shrug. “I like certainty.”

  Our eyes meet. Even in our lies, we have told one another something real.

  There is lime residue in my teeth. The bartender has his back to us now, perhaps having written us off as flirtatious philanderers. And then Patrick—is that even his real name?—glances at my left hand and says, “And what’s your husband like?”

  I turn my fat diamond ring to the inside of my palm. “Actually, I’m a widow.” This isn’t a lie. “Do you have a husband? A wife?”

  There is something about the way he’s looking at me that makes me feel scooped out and raw. “Neither.”

  Is he serious, or is this just what he wants to be true? I’m not sure which answer I want more.

  We have two more drinks and spin tales about ourselves. He has jet-setters for parents. I have distant relations to royals. I say I committed a few stealthy murders in my youth. Patrick says he was once shot off into space and spent days in orbit before NASA figured out he was missing. Midway into drink number three, we turn somber. Patrick tells me he has never fallen in love and isn’t sure love is real. I tell him that I have, when I was young, but then I discovered it’s a fallacy. This is actually my truth, which I know isn’t the rules, but I’m tipsy, and Patrick is inching closer to me with every word he breathes, and something is happening, something I can’t quite understand.

  Naughty, the cautious part of my brain reminds me again and again. I’m married to a handsome, successful man. I have two smart, successful teenage daughters. From an outsider’s perspective, I have it all. But here in the darkness of this strange bar, it all feels so far away. When I look back at that life, the one I’d been steeped in only twelve hours before, it’s that Kit who seems false, not this one.

  Patrick’s chili-infused breath could ignite a forest fire. He looks at me as though he’s known me forever. I’m so dazzled, and I wonder if he somehow has. “And what, royal murderess keeper-of-truth, do you want to do right now?” he asks.

  The world is my oyster. I could tell him anything: that I want to cliff-dive off the moon, buy out a Chanel boutique, time-travel to Benjamin Franklin times, crawl into a cocoon and transform into a butterfly. But I know in those acorn-brown eyes what he’s really asking, and it’s what I want, too.

  I let him take my hand and lead me out of the bar. Our lips touch as soon as the elevator doors close, and quickly, the kissing goes from tentative to full-on passionate. His fingers fumble for the tiny, delicate buttons at the neckline of my blouse. My hands are on his waist.

  “Oh God,” Patrick moans into my ear.

  But then, coming to my senses, I push away. “Wait,” I whisper. “No. I can’t.”

  His eyes are two tragic pools. “Okay . . .”

  I look down, panting. Adjust my blouse. Pull down my skirt. I fumble for my key card, deliberately not inviting him back to my room. I want to—believe me. I’m dying to.

  “I’m sorry.” I shake my head and give him a sad, regretful smile. “This just isn’t me.”

  2

  LYNN

  TUESDAY, APRIL 25, 2017

  After being Mystery Reader in my son’s class, after a workout at Flywheel, after a blow-dry touch-up and makeup reapplication, after strutting out of the gym and getting double takes from nearly every man on the street—something I’ve become used to—and after popping into the gourmet grocery next door to my office, I get a lovely compliment. I pass a bottle of wine for tonight’s dinner across the scanner at the checkout counter, and the shopgirl asks me for ID.

  “Me?” I blink hard, grinning. “Goodness, I’m almost forty! I have two kids!”

  “Oh.” The girl—she can’t be much older than twenty-two—squints at my face, then my ID, then back at me again. “Well, whatever you’re doing, it’s working.”

  This makes everyone else in the line inspect me just as thoroughly—including an almost-as-skinny, hawk-nosed mom who was a row behind me at Flywheel. Good. I swish to the office in a cloud of smugness, wondering if this moment is Facebook-worthy. It certainly reaffirms that all of my renewed efforts in my appearance and fitness, which I’ve redoubled since moving here, are paying off.

  But as soon as I reach my office floor, my mood dampens. Kit Manning-Strasser’s office, the first room I pass on the way to mine, is still dark. She isn’t back from Philly yet? Late night with the Hawsers, maybe? That seems unlikely—in the pictures I’ve seen of the extremely wealthy couple, they look like the type who have already picked out their funeral plots. I wonder if my name ever came up over the course of their lovely evening out together—oh, you know, just the woman who groomed the Hawsers in the first place? The woman who nurtured a relationship, listening for hours as Lucy Hawser talked about her sick corgi and her girlhood years of riding dressage, practically falling asleep as Robert Hawser told her, time and time again, about the round of golf he’d had with Warren Buffett? That lady—remember her, people? Because guess what: She’s not the same woman who took you out to dinner. We are very, very different.

  Kit is more senior than you are, and that’s why she gets to go on this trip, my boss, George, explained to me last week. And while it’s true I’ve only been working in Aldrich’s giving department for six months—my husband, kids, and I moved to Pennsylvania from Maryland about a year ago because my husband’s company was offered great tax breaks here—I don’t like coming in second.

  I sit down at my desk, open my e-mail, and scour my messages for updates on the Hawsers. There’s nothing—not from Kit, not from George. There are plenty of last-minute details about the Aldrich University Giving Gala, which is happening tomorrow at the Natural History Museum. Is the guest list finalized? Are the speeches ready? Has the planner updated me on the final details? Yes, yes, yes—I’ve always been excellent at throwing a party.

  All that done, I open Facebook and sign into my account. The post of me, my daughter, Amelia, and my son, Connor, standing at the overlook of Mount Washington, the city of Pittsburgh glittering beneath us, has garnered quite a response: Beautiful, says my high school boyfriend, Brock, who married a woman who got a big ass after having three kids. Your kids could be models! writes an old friend from Maryland; poor thing went through a nasty divorce last year. I consider writing a response saying that I couldn’t care less if my children grow up to be classically beautiful—it’s their accomplishments, hopes, and dreams that fuel my fire. I also wish a few more of the moms from school had weighed in. Perhaps they think the post is too boastful? Or they find it inappropriate that I’ve let my nine-year-old daughter wear lip gloss and just a touch of mascara? Or I’m being paranoid. They’re busy. That’s all.

  I click around to see if there’s any dirt on anyone I know—a girl’s night out that got messy; an inflammatory political argument between family members, all played out in comments. I see pictures of someone’s new house (smaller than mine), someone’s new baby (uglier than mine were), and a vacation photo of one of my sorority sisters and her husband (I’ve been on bigger yachts, and I have a better body). All is right with the world.

  My phone buzzes, and I reach for it, figuring it’s my husband texting to check in. He’s on a flight back from somewhere—Denver? St. Louis?—trying to find another angel investor as kindly and generous as the first anonymous individual who’d poured tons of money into his business years ago. I suspect he’ll be successful, eventually; his business is great and innovative, and rich people sometimes just need a little cajoling.

  Except the text isn’t from my husband. Instead, it’s from an unlisted number. When I open it, it says, simply, Get ready.

  I can just make out my ghostlike reflection in the phone’s screen. I wait for a follow-up text of explanation. Nothing comes.

  I look out the window. The sky is flat and gray. The air seems oddly still. The message gives me a chill. It feels like a warning. An explosion. A mass killing. A plague of locusts. I tap the phone icon o
n my phone, tempted to call my kids’ school to check if everything’s okay.

  Then, as if in answer, my monitor goes dark. My head snaps up in surprise and then annoyance, because I can hear that winding-down sound of the hard drive shutting off. What the hell? Outside my office, I hear my assistant, Betsy, make a similarly startled sound. I stand just as she’s rolling back her chair and peering under her desk to look at the power strip on the floor. Her monitor is dark, too.

  I wander into the hallway. Everyone is staring in bewilderment at their monitors.

  “A power outage?” Jeremy, one of our grant writers, says.

  “But our lights are still on,” Amanda, Kit’s assistant, says, pointing upward.

  Betsy’s screen snaps to neon yellow, and she lets out a little yelp. I hurry back into my office. My screen is also yellow, and no matter how many keys I press, I cannot restore it to factory settings. Even turning the computer on and off does nothing—it’s as though someone has taken over our power grid. I glance out the window, down onto the Aldrich quad. Terrorists? Aliens? All I see are students walking sleepily to class.

  The flashing on the screen stops, and a message pops up. You can’t hide, hypocrites, it reads in old-school eight-bit font, the type that used to blare across arcade screens. Below this is a freakish, pixelated drawing of a screaming face with hollowed-out eyes.

  The hair on the back of my neck prickles.

  Murmurs from the hall: “Who’s doing this?” And then: “It’s a hack. Holy shit, we’re being hacked!” And then: “There’s probably malware on our computers. Our systems are probably dead!”

  Hacked? Why would someone hack the Aldrich Charitable Giving Department? To expose our donors? Most of that stuff is public record. Perhaps someone is looking for donors’ bank information, or their SSNs? I reach for the phone to call security—but then, what is Glen, the sixty-five-year-old guard, going to do?

  I put the receiver to my ear before I realize the office phone is dead, too. I grab my cell. That weird text message is still up. Get ready. Why would the hacker text me? I want to send a reply text, but I’m afraid. Replying could be as bad as clicking on those pop-up windows that unleash a virus on your hard drive. My phone contains more crucial information about work than my computer does.

  On the monitor, the cryptic message dissolves, and a URL appears. I hover the mouse over it in anticipation. If my computer’s already dead, what’s the worst thing that can happen if I click on it? But when I try, the link isn’t active. I’m not directed to a browser.

  I click the mouse over it again—still nothing. Frowning, I grab a pen and copy down the web address. Moments later, my screen goes dark. No new messages pop up. I flip the switch of my computer, but when the computer reboots, a small question mark blinks in the middle of the screen. I’m no IT expert, but even I know that means the operating system has been wiped.

  Outside my office, everyone is exchanging numb glances. “Is this bad?” Betsy sounds frightened.

  “Do you think they got our social security numbers?” That’s Bill, who deals with international donors.

  “Did anyone write down that website that was on the screen?” asks Oscar, the youngest and techiest of the group.

  “I did.” I step forward to show him the slip of paper on which I’d copied the link. “What do you think it is?”

  Oscar squints at what I’ve written. “It looks like a file that’s hosted on Planett.” He types the file-sharing juggernaut’s address into his cell phone browser.

  “Wait!” I cry. “What if your phone blows up?”

  “Then I’ll blame you,” Oscar says. When he notices me scrambling to take the paper back, he quickly adds, “Jesus. I won’t. I’m curious, too.”

  A crowd has formed. Oscar finishes typing the website into his phone and hits GO. I hold my breath, half expecting his phone to explode or the building to go up in flames. The screen shifts and, indeed, a Planett page appears. There is a list of folders, each of which seems clickable. Aaron, Boyd. Aaron, Corrine. Aaron, Desmond. Whose names are these?

  Oscar scrolls down a little, and the Aarons disappear, and then I see a flash of Antonishyn, Magda, and Apatrea, Laura D. Wait, I know her—she’s a nurse in the Aldrich Hospital Department of Cardiology. She and her husband RSVP’d for the giving gala.

  Then I see another name I know—Boyd, Sydney. Dr. Sydney Boyd is a professor in the journalism department who recently won a Pulitzer—I’ve been talking him up to a tech CEO and Aldrich grad who is considering making a major donation.

  “Me?” Betsy’s finger stabs at the tiny screen. And there she is: Breck, Betsy. She looks terrified.

  Oscar glances at Betsy hesitantly. “Do you want me to click on the folder?”

  “No!” Betsy cries, but then she lets out a whimper. “Or, yes. Or, I don’t know! What if it says something awful?”

  I appraise Betsy—late thirties, dumpy, a self-proclaimed Jimmy Buffett parrothead. What is her something awful?

  Oscar hands Betsy his phone. “How about you click on it? Tell us what’s inside.”

  Betsy gratefully takes the device and steps a few paces away from us. I’ve never been so curious about her in my life. What can I say? I’m a sucker for dirt on people.

  “It’s . . . e-mail,” Betsy says slowly. “My work e-mail. All my work e-mails. And it goes back . . . forever.”

  Jeremy hurries over. I do, too. The screen shows the inbox of her Aldrich.edu account. Most of the e-mail topics are about scheduling or the Aldrich Giving Gala; they’re dated as recently as five minutes ago.

  “Are all your e-mails here?” Jeremy cries. “Does this mean everyone’s e-mails are?”

  “If your name’s on that Planett list, then I’m guessing . . . yes?” Oscar sounds dazed.

  “B-But I have sensitive information in my e-mails!” Jeremy’s voice rises an octave. “People’s account numbers! Telephone records!”

  People murmur. Since Oscar’s phone doesn’t seem to have caught a virus, everyone sprints to their own phones to check for their names on the drive site. I do the same, and my name is there, Godfrey, Lynn L. I click on the folder. Inside, I see the same party e-mails I’ve just read on my monitor. There is a sent tab, too, and even a deleted folder, which is full of ads for Saks, Tiffany and Co., and reminders that I need to get my BMW serviced.

  I return to the main folder, my heart in my throat. It doesn’t give me the best feeling to know that my whole department can read my e-mails if they want, especially because I tend to be a little biting about some of my colleagues in digital missives. But unlike Jeremy, I haven’t e-mailed sensitive bank information or exposed any of our clients’ personal details. Nor have I exposed any of my own personal details—at least not much beyond the odd exasperated rant to the boss.

  It feels like I’ve dodged a bullet. Then it hits me—if my gynecologist and a journalism professor are in this database, too, did their computers also go down? Did they also receive the link to all those folders on the cloud?

  I think about our donors finding out. I think of the money we could lose if any secrets come out—because, c’mon, there are going to be secrets. I hit my phone icon and move to call my boss. We need to do damage control. IT security will shut down this database before it can become too widespread—but still. We should have an action plan in place until that happens.

  But wait.

  I stare at the Planett page again. If I thought Facebook was a good place to troll for random gossip, then this database, with its millions of electronic messages never meant to be seen by the public, is a gold mine. IT security is probably working to shut it down this very moment. I only have a few minutes to look through it.

  My finger hovers over the scroll bar. Is there someone I want to find out more about? The mother of the most popular girl in my daughter’s class, who works in administration? There’s somethin
g about her that screams swinger, and maybe I could somehow use that to my advantage to get my daughter invited to a few key sleepovers. Or what about the Aldrich hospital-affiliated marriage counselor my husband and I went to twice before I deemed her a biased crackpot? I can see if she kept notes on us. I can see what she really thinks about our marriage.

  Then I get a brainstorm. Of course. Trolling for random gossip is one thing, but finding something that could finally give me leverage in this job—well, that’s useful.

  I’m going to look up Kit.

  3

  RAINA

  TUESDAY, APRIL 25, 2017

  I’m in line at the Aldrich University Bursar’s Office when my school is hacked. It’s like a beautiful piece of choreography seeing the computers flashing in unison and then that spooky picture of the eyeless man popping up where everyone’s Facebook feeds and food blogs used to be. All the machines go dead at once. The woman behind the payments desk frowns, swears under her breath, and then stands to address the students standing in line.

  “System’s down, people. Unless you got cash, you gotta come back and pay your bill another day.”

  Groans. Mutters. I raise my hand. “Um, I’ve got cash.”

  Everyone in line turns to look at me. I hold my head high, trying to project an air of mystique. Maybe I’m so wealthy, it’s nothing for me to carry around fourteen grand in my pocket, I think haughtily. You people don’t know.

  I glide toward the bursar’s window. The lady, who’s heavyset and has sumptuous lips and thick brown hair piled on her head, still has her fingers curled over the keyboard as though her computer’s about to spring back to life. I hand her the thick envelope of bills. “Raina Hammond,” I say in a perky voice. “This is a payment for the summer and fall sessions. Do you need my ID number?”

  She does, so I rattle it off. She makes a note of it on my account and stuffs the cash in an envelope, old-school style. As we’re finishing up, the man at the next window lets out a sharp gasp. “Lorraine! Our e-mails are on some kind of server!”