A bold black number at the top left of the screen indicated his dad’s account had 7,734 unread emails, most of which appeared to be system-wide email blasts. For the next 30 minutes Ryan mundanely rolled his mouse back and forth between “Select All” and “Delete,” eliminating 25 messages with each cycle, quickly scanning each of the subject lines as he went. The only thing that really stuck out at first glance was that recruiters were still contacting his dad with job offers 10 years after his death.
As the received dates of the emails continued to rewind, an uneasy anticipation began to build. These were private communications between adults. The only perspective from which he’d ever known his parents was that of an innocent child. They were still infallible in his mind, and he really didn’t want that to change.
A sinking in his chest met a rising from his stomach as he deleted what would probably amount to the final batch of 25 junk messages, received in the first few days after his parents were gone.
As the next page loaded with another set of 25 emails, his eyes were drawn to the bottom of the screen, where for the first time previously-read messages stood out beneath the bold-type unread ones. There was something powerfully sentimental, almost tangible, about the realization that his dad had sat before a computer somewhere ten years earlier and had clicked on these same messages. The most recent one, received just hours before his parents’ death, was from his mom with the subject line, “re: Li’l Ryan’s Bday”.
With a lump developing in his throat, he clicked on the message. His mom had written: “That’s something dads should talk to their sons about ;)” Hmm. Didn’t make sense without context.
Below the end of the message he found the option to “show quoted text,” which he clicked on to reveal the entire exchange in reverse chronological order. She had been responding to his dad’s message: “I’m sure he’ll get it. I like the idea, but you better be prepared to have a discussion about the birds and bees. You know how his mind works. He’ll want to know how that baby got in there.”
Ryan’s palms grew sweaty as he began to infer what was coming next. Not entirely sure he wanted to continue, but certain he couldn’t stop, he scrolled to the end.
The thread had started with his mother’s message, “I’m already showing big-time. Sweaters only get so baggy, and it’s going to be warming up soon. I think tonight would be the perfect time to tell Ryan. I wrapped up a T-shirt for him in one of his presents that says ‘Big Brother’ on it. A birthday surprise! You think he’ll get it?”
Having trouble taking in a deep breath, he rose to a stand and slowly backed away from his computer. It wasn’t his nature to ask fate “Why?” or to dwell on whether or not something was “fair.” But this was utterly overwhelming — a knife wound on top of an old scar that had never sufficiently healed.
Corbett Hermanson peered around the edge of Bradford’s half-open door and knocked gently on the frame. Bradford was sitting at his desk, leafing through a thick binder.
He had to have heard the knock, Corbett thought, peeking in, but his attention to the material in the binder remained unbroken.
Now regretting his timid first knock, Corbett anxiously debated whether he should knock again, which could be perceived as rude, or try something else to get Bradford’s attention. Ultimately he decided to clear his throat loudly, while standing more prominently in the doorway.
Still, Bradford kept his nose buried in the files in front of him.
Finally, Corbett knocked more confidently on the door itself.
“What!” Bradford demanded. “If you’ve got something to say, just say it!”
“Sorry, sir. Wasn’t sure you heard me,” Corbett said, with a nervous chuckle.
“Do you think I’m deaf and blind?” Bradford sneered. “Just get on with it already.”
“Well sir, I’m sure you recall our conversation a few days back about the potential unauthorized user in our system? It turns out…”
“Close the door!” Bradford whispered emphatically, waving his arms wildly for Corbett to stop talking and come all the way into his office.
“Sorry, sir,” Corbett said, his cheeks glowing an orange-red hue to match his hair. After self-consciously closing the door behind him, he picked up where he’d left off. “It turns out, he’s quite good at keeping himself hidden. I was right about his not being in Indiana, but behind that location, his IP address bounces around all over the world from India to Singapore to Brazil to several U.S. cities — all places I believe you’ve traveled. Had you originally planned to be in Indiana last week?”
“No,” Bradford said dismissively, before pausing for a moment. “But my secretary had put it on my calendar. He must be basing his locations on where he thinks I’ll be!”
“Tracking down his true location, unfortunately, may prove to be beyond my expertise. If we got the authorities involved…”
“We’re not getting authorities involved. This is what we pay you for,” Bradford barked.
“Well I do have another idea,” Corbett said, taking a step closer to Bradford’s desk and lowering his voice. “We could set a trap.”
Now he was speaking Bradford’s language.
“I’ve set up a half dozen dummy accounts on our corporate email server,” Corbett said, handing Bradford a slip of paper with several handwritten lines. “Some time today I would ask you to send an email to those accounts referencing an urgent confidential issue with former ticker symbol J. Along with the message, I’d like you to attach the file that I’ve listed below the email addresses on that piece of paper.
“He’s been coming and going as he pleases anywhere he wants in our system for the past three to four years as far as I can tell, so I’m counting on the assumption he’s let his guard down a little by now.
“I’ve attached a tiny tracer virus to that file I’ve written down for you,” Corbett said, motioning to the scrap of paper in Bradford’s right hand. “I’m pretty sure his computer will detect and destroy it fairly quickly. But if I’m online at the time he downloads it, I should have just enough time to pinpoint his location.”
“I like it,” Bradford beamed, nodding his head approvingly. “I’ll get the email out today.”
“Make it juicy, but not so much that it’s suspicious,” Corbett added, smiling along with his boss.
Bradford’s expression quickly soured at the suggestion. “I don’t need your ‘expert’ tips, Corbett. Trust me, I know how to play this game better than you. Now, get back to work.”
As the sun slowly inched above the Cambridge horizon, casting long streaks of blinding light westward down the Charles River, Ryan found himself on the south end of campus, gazing up at the Eliot House clock tower, its hands transposed on top of one another, pointing straight down to six-thirty.
Having spent the wee hours of the morning wandering aimlessly around the mostly empty campus, oblivious to the world around him, he was suddenly reminded that his last final of the semester was coming up in an hour and a half. And maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. At least he’d be able to focus on something else for an hour or so.
But as it turned out, he wouldn’t find the distraction he was looking for in the classroom. A mere twenty minutes after taking his seat, he returned the pen he’d borrowed from the professor along with his completed answer sheet from a test that unfortunately hadn’t been challenging enough to give his tormented mind any reprieve. He exited the lecture hall with the same hollow feeling that he’d come in with. If anything, it had only intensified.
The previously peaceful campus was now bustling with sleep-deprived, stressed-out students hurrying off to take final exams or squeeze in one last cram session. Desperate to be alone, he reluctantly headed back to his dorm.