Exploited
Page 57

It was the last photograph I had of Dillon. It was before he was admitted to the hospital. Before the chemo that didn’t save his life.
Before he became the shell that only wanted to die.
“They’d never give you this level of bullshit,” I murmured, running my thumb over the glossy print.
Damn, it was times like this that I missed Dillon the most. When I allowed myself to think of how much my world had changed since he had vacated it.
When I really thought about the fact that I’d never get to play basketball with him again. When I couldn’t pick up the phone and bitch about Mom’s craziness and Dad’s stubbornness.
Dillon had been someone to help shoulder the burden of family expectations.
We were friends as well as brothers.
My biggest regret in life was not making it to the hospital to see him before he died.
I had promised him….
—
“You just missed the hot nurse. She came in to give me a sponge bath.” Speaking was hard for Dillon. He usually lost his breath and had to close his eyes from the pain in his head.
It was becoming harder and harder to come and see him. To watch him deteriorate every single day into a shell of the man he had been. He had lost so much weight that his skin was hanging off his bones, the stark shape of his skull prominent. His head was wrapped in thick white bandages from yet another surgery to relieve the increasing pressure on his brain.
His hair was long gone and he seemed to have aged thirty years in the span of months.
But he kept his sense of humor. No matter how bleak his future, he tried to keep us laughing.
“Damn. You should have faked a seizure or something to keep her in here.” I sat down in the chair by his bed, hating the smell of death that seemed to cling to him now.
“I could always call her back in here. Tell her that my brother needs a sponge bath too,” Dillon offered, his forehead creasing in pain. He tried to lift his hand to push the call button but let it fall back to the bed limply.
“Maybe another time.” I patted his arm. “How’s it going today?”
Dillon shrugged. “Eh, the same as yesterday. I have to wear a diaper now, which is pretty hot, let me tell you. And I don’t even have the energy to jerk one off. This is my idea of hell.”
“Where’s Reagan when you need her? Shouldn’t she be taking care of that for you?” I chuckled.
I hated his fiancée. She was selfish and vapid. And she sure as hell didn’t deserve my brother.
But he loved her.
And given that he had only weeks left, I would never tell him that she had made it very clear that I was welcome in her bed anytime I wanted.
“She hates the hospital. It upsets her too much. I told her not to bother coming today.” Dillon closed his eyes, obviously not able to keep them open.
“She should be here anyway,” I argued.
Dillon frowned. “Please, don’t start on Reagan, Mas. She’s doing the best she can.”
“And it’s not fucking good enough,” I growled.
Dillon sighed. “Please, Mason. I don’t want to spend what little energy I have defending her to you.”
“Fine. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
Dillon opened his eyes, the blue dull and listless. “Ha. I’d like to see that. It’d be a first.”
I playfully punched his arm. Lightly. Very, very lightly. “Don’t think you can use the whole I-have-cancer thing to get out of an ass beating, Dil. I’ll still take you.”
“Then I’d have to cry on the hot nurse’s shoulder and tell her all about my mean big brother while she sponges me off.”
I laughed and he smiled as much as he was able.
“You know, I’d blow a priest to get out of this fucking bed. Maybe play another round of basketball. Too bad this body isn’t good for anything anymore.” Dillon rarely indulged in self-pity. I was surprised to hear him sounding so negative, though I had expected it at some point.
“You don’t have to blow a priest, dude. That’s just gross,” I joked.
Dillon didn’t smile.
For the first time I saw how depressed he really was. How hopeless he felt.
“I’m dying, Mason. And all I want to do is play basketball one more time. That probably sounds pretty pathetic. Of all the things on my bucket list, that’s what I really want to do. No bungee jumping or race car driving. Just a game of one-on-one with my brother.”
I wrapped my hand around his arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Then this weekend, I’m busting you out of here. We’ll go to the park and I’ll kick your ass on the court.”
Dillon’s face lit up, just enough to lift my heart. “Yeah? You promise?”
I nodded, not realizing that I was lying to him. “I promise.”
—
When I started thinking about Dillon, it was hard to stop. It was like falling into a grief spiral.
I put the photograph away. Talking to my parents always brought up the stuff I wished I could forget.
I had to focus on the job that I had ultimately chosen over my dying brother.
It should have made me resentful of my work. Instead it had done quite the opposite. I needed my work to confirm that I was doing something productive. Something important that would make all the bullshit worth it.
And now it was finding Freedom Overdrive.
I opened my computer and pulled up the signature I had been obsessing over for weeks.
I stared at the numbers and letters on the screen.
12080512alwcaw.
It looked so random, but I knew from experience it was anything but. A hacker’s signature was their waving flag. It was their branding stamp. Their big “Hey, look at me.”
I knew that figuring out what those numbers meant was the key to unlocking Freedom Overdrive’s identity.
12080512.
Those numbers could mean anything.
A date, maybe?
Two dates?
0512 wasn’t a year, but 1208 could mean December 8. 0512—May 12?
Birthday? Anniversary? Significant event?
Fuck, the possibilities were endless.
“Mail call,” Perry chirped, dropping a brown envelope on my desk.
I picked it up, a pang of alarm buzzing through me.
I barely noticed that Perry was still standing there as I tore into it.
It was another typed note. Plain white paper. Two sentences.
Do you see the truth? She does a good job hiding it from you.