T.M.I.

Six

They say the best way to hide something is to leave it out in the open for the world to see.

Or, in case of information, make the elements of a potential search so common, they will sprout a million pages of useless entries.

Damn Connor Michaels and his common, completely unoriginal name. Damn the fact that I can't even be sure his name isn't actually Michael Connors, because at this point, I'm willing to accept that possibility.

But no, my memory is precise, as it always is when I acquire targets. And, given his snide remarks, his defamation of my work, and the possibility that he might have figured out I'm behind TMI, Connor Michaels has become one of my primary targets.

If his name wasn't so impossibly lame, then maybe I could actually find something useful on him. Google has betrayed me, and Facebook is about to take that route as well... Until I finally see him. Thank God for proximity and the algorithms of the internet meant to bring people who want nothing to do with each other together.

I pull the laptop over my crossed legs and squint at his profile picture. He's tiny, his dark hair is longer, and he's wearing sunglasses, so I'm not one hundred percent sure it's him. The guy stands leaning against a bike, the backdrop a lush mountain scenery from maybe West Virginia. The profile is private, so I can't find out more, except that he's not a figment of my imagination.

I leave the laptop on the bed and pull higher into my pillows. Ever since I was a little girl, my bed has always been my safe haven. Like an island in the middle of the stormy sea, everything just worked better when I was in bed.

It started with my love of jumping on top of it, despite my mother's request that I act like a lady. Then, as school started, it was easiest for me to concentrate on writing and reading in the place I felt safest. Even now, after we moved away from the place I grew up, at least I still have my bed. I'd huffed and puffed that I want my old one, together with my pillows and sheets. My mother never understood why I'm so particular about my sheets, but she only knows how to get them dirty, anyway.

I pick at the tiny sheep on my comforter, but for once, I'm not presented with a valid solution for my issues. His last name doesn't appear in Congress, so I can't identify if he might be the heir of some influential politician. But, just like me, he could be the offspring of support staff. Those aren't listed anywhere, and there's a million of them, so even if I were speaking to my father, there's a good chance he doesn't know the mysterious Michaels either.

The thought pushes the air out of my lungs, and the edges of my vision turn a little blurry. I try to take a deep breath, but the air isn't enough anymore. I could let this go, I could throw Connor Michaels in the pit of discarded characters for his lack of importance. Except he might know. And I have no idea who he is or how to shut him up.

The lack of air becomes a burn in my lungs and a pain in my chest. My eyes grow wider, but the quality of the image only deteriorates. I can't breathe!

I need help.

I can't need help. I don't want to need help.

My eyes are burning and I don't want to cry. I don't cry. It solves nothing.

And yet, moisture gathers in the corner of my eyes. I refuse to blink and let it pour down my cheeks. I finally take in a rattled breath, and some of the pressure on my chest seems to ease.

You have someone this time.

I grit my teeth at the thought, but the existence of Marisa Delterre tames my panic attack. Yes, this time I have someone I can ask, someone who might give me more information on this new potential threat. After all, if he's a threat to me, he's a threat to her.