Reputation(7)

“Hey,” I say, gesturing to the news vans. “This is wild, isn’t it?”

“What’s wild?” Sienna blinks innocently.

“This hack thing. All the systems went down. And someone says there’s some sort of e-mail breach—everyone’s e-mails are on a public server.” I search her face. “You didn’t know?”

Sienna frowns. She and I met because I used to work for her grandfather. She’s a total knockout with her porcelain skin, big green eyes, and—I’m thinking this happened only recently—gorgeous boobs. Upon meeting Sienna, I thought she’d be a wild, fun friend, but actually, her idea of a crazy night is going to poetry slams and drinking too much coffee. But she’s grown on me all the same. Her innocence is refreshing. It kind of makes me feel bad for everything I’m not telling her.

“You mean even our e-mails?” Sienna asks. Her face has lost a little of its color. “Like, students’?”

I shrug. “Yeah, I guess. Students . . . admin . . . I don’t know who else. I haven’t looked at it yet.”

I’m about to say more, but then my phone rings. When I glance down, my heart shoots to my throat. The caller ID shows Greg Strasser’s name—Sienna’s stepfather. I stab IGNORE in shock. Why is he calling? I just saw him.

A moment later, my phone rings once more. Greg again. I glance at Sienna, certain she’s going to spy the guilt that’s written all over my face, but she’s busy with her own phone, her brow furrowed at something on the screen. “Excuse me for a sec,” I murmur to her, walking a few paces away.

“Hello?” I answer cautiously. Just in case it’s Kit, Greg’s wife—Sienna’s mom—on the other end instead.

“Raina. Thank God you answered.”

Greg’s husky voice is halting but concerned. I feel a pull in my chest. “Uh . . . hi?”

“Are you okay?” Greg asks cautiously.

A gust of early spring wind whips my chiffon scarf into my face. Down the block, another news van jerks to a stop. Reporters jump out and approach some more kids on the green.

“Why would I not be okay?” I ask evenly. I don’t want to raise my voice and arouse Sienna’s interest.

“This hack thing,” Greg says. “You’ve heard, right?”

“Sure. All of the Aldrich systems are down.”

“Yes. And all the e-mails are on some sort of . . . database. Are you . . . is everything okay with yours?”

I slide my tongue into the space at the back of my mouth where, years ago, I’d had a tooth pulled. My parents had no dental insurance, so I’d never gotten a bridge or implant, but now I’ve gotten used to the smooth, gummy absence. It’s my secret worry stone. “I’m not worried,” I say smoothly. It’s not a lie.

“Are you sure?”

“There’s nothing in my e-mails.” I’m starting to feel annoyed. “You don’t trust me?”

“No, but . . .” There’s murmuring on his end. “Shit, I have to go,” he whispers.

And then he’s gone.

I stare at the phone for a long beat, trying to read between the lines. Is Greg trying to warn me that he’s exposed something in his e-mails, something linked to me?

“Everything all right?”

Sienna has trotted over. She looks shaken, but not suspicious—at least I don’t think so. I drop my phone into my pocket as if it’s made of lava and hurriedly fix a smile on my face. “Yep, it’s all good.” And then I link my arm through hers. “Wanna get a cold brew?”

She leans into me, affectionate and trusting. She knows nothing. And she won’t ever know. There’s no way Greg slipped up in his e-mails—he’s as careful as I am. It’s why we understand each other. It’s why we work. The Raina Hammond on the Aldrich e-mail server? She’s the Raina I aspire to. Ambitious. Dedicated. Academic. Moral. The kind of girl who has nothing to hide.

It’s everything else about me—everything those e-mails don’t say—that I worry about leaking. But if I have anything to do with it, that’s stuff people will never, ever find out.





4





LAURA


WEDNESDAY, APRIL 26, 2017


My six-month-old won’t eat. I sit on my queen-size bed trying to force him to my nipple, but nothing. I try a bottle—same. I grab a squeezy pouch from the nightstand and see if he’d like a taste of pureed carrots. Nope. Now he won’t have anything in his stomach when he goes to day care. He’ll be cranky by midmorning. A bear for the day care providers.

“Come on, noodle.” I undo the snaps on my nursing bra again. “Freddie, just have a little, please?”

Freddie arches away from my breast. There’s an almost teasing look on his face, like he knows he’s pressing my buttons. “Freddie, come on!” I moan.

“Geez, babe.”

My husband, Ollie, stands in the doorway, a look of disdain on his broad, ridiculously good-looking face. “You’re being kind of pushy, don’t you think?”

I let the flap of the nursing bra fall over my nipple. “It’s just . . .”

Ollie lifts Freddie from me and cradles him in his arms. “Is mommy being mean?” he says in a goo-goo voice. “Is mommy forcing you on her boob?”