Invasion of Privacy by Christopher Reich Page B

Office.”
    “Give me Carlos Cantu,” said Tank. “Tell him it’s urgent.”

18
    Mary stood inside the foyer of her home, the blast of air conditioning doing nothing to cool her temper. Forty minutes after leaving Don Bennett, she remained incensed by his behavior. One moment he was ripping the phone out of her hand, the next he didn’t want to glance at it. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that something or someone had changed his mind.
    Mary shook her head, vowing action, and walked into the kitchen. She dumped her purse on the counter and took a bottle of water from the fridge. Her eye stopped on the colorful cans of energy drinks neatly arranged in the back corner. Joe’s drinks. She thought about throwing them out, then changed her mind. She needed him with her for a while longer.
    Her phone buzzed. The number belonged to an old friend. Another condolence call. She let it roll to voicemail. She had more important items to attend to. There were the funeral arrangements to make, flights to book, hotel rooms to reserve. She couldn’t mourn. She had too much to do. But before any of that, something else required her attention.
    If Don Bennett wouldn’t tell her what Joe was working on, she’d damn well find out herself.
    —
    Mary nudged open the door to Jessie’s room. “Hi, sweets. Can I come in?”
    Jessie lay facedown on her bed, arms splayed over the edges. “Go away.”
    Mary took a step closer. It was no time to argue. A truce had been declared between all mothers and their teenage daughters. “I need your help,” she said. “I’m looking for my in-house IT squad.”
    A groan was the only response.
    She entered the bedroom tentatively. Clothes covered the floor. A glass of root beer sat on Jessie’s desk, and next to it an ice cream wrapper.The posters of horses and boy bands were long gone. On one wall, done up as a lithograph, was a quote from Julian Assange about “information wanting to be free,” and on another a street advertisement for DEF CON, the hackers’ convention in Las Vegas. The room was essentially a battlefield. The frontline between adolescents and parents.
    Mary sat down on the bed. She waited for an outcry, a command to get off, or just a plaintive “Mom!” Jessie was silent. Progress, thought Mary. She ran a hand along her daughter’s back. Fifteen years old. Already taller than her mom. Mary’s firstborn was a young woman.
    “It’s about my phone,” she went on. “I think I lost a message.”
    “So?”
    Mary fought the reflex to pull her hand away. “It was from your dad.”
    “When?”
    “Yesterday.”
    A moment passed. Still Jessie didn’t move. Mary gathered a measure of the sheet in her fist. She gave Jessie until three to move or to show the smallest hint of civility.
    One…two…
    Jessie grunted, then pushed herself up to an elbow. “Give it.”
    Mary handed her the phone. “I thought maybe you could tell me how I lost it or if I can get it back.”
    “Maybe.” Jessie sat up and put her feet on the floor. She cradled the phone in both hands, head hunched low over it like a priest blessing the sacred host.
    “He called at four-oh-three,” said Mary. “But I didn’t check the message until around five-thirty.”
    “I see it.”
    Mary’s heart skipped a beat. “The message?”
    “No,” said Jessie. “The call.”
    Mary tamped down her disappointment. She caught a glimpse of the screen. Lines of letters and numerals and symbols as alien as cuneiform or Sanskrit. Her daughter, Champollion.
    “Not here,” said Jessie.
    “I thought maybe I deleted it by mistake.”
    “And then deleted the deleted messages? That would be lame.”
    “I didn’t do it. You can check—”
    “The older messages are still there,” said Jessie. “I can read.”
    “I listened to it once at home and then before I went into the hospital to see your dad. I told Mr. Bennett that I’d gotten it and—”
    “Why?” Jessie sat up straighter, a hand pushing the