Page 3 of Mr. Wilde

The words float past without meaning, except the tone. It’s careful and controlled. The way people sound when they’re trying not to scare someone. Yet that thought alone scares me more than anything.

I want to speak. To ask them all of the things.

What happened to me?

Why does my body feel broken?

Why am I afraid of my own memories?

But my mouth won’t move. My thoughts seem to slide apart. And the darkness pulls me under once more. It’s tugs are gentle but merciless.

The last thing I feel before I disappear is that hand returning to mine. Holding on. Like I might slip away if it lets go.

1

MAX

Secure Sphere never sleeps. Even at eight in the morning, the office hums like a disturbed beehive. Keyboards are clacking, espresso machines hissing, and low conversations drifting over the glass-walled bullpen. Screens are aglow everywhere with lines of code scrolling endlessly and maps lighting up with real-time threat alerts from clients across the globe.

I weave through it all, coffee in hand, trying not to get pulled into three different conversations before I even reach my office.

Loretta’s southern drawl cuts through it all like a referee’s whistle. “Bauer, if you’re watching another video of cats dressed like superheroes instead of debugging that firewall, I’ll personally change your Wi-Fi password to password.”

“That’s a security crime,” Bauer protests.

“So is being thirty years old and still thinking Lunchables are a suitable option for a meal.”

I snicker and take another sip of my coffee. Forty-seven employees, three continents, and enough brainpower in this room to probably hack the Pentagon before lunch. Not that we would.

Okay, not today anyway.

My office manager, Loretta Simmons, spots me immediately. It’s like she has some kind of maternal radar for when I’m about to ignore my responsibilities. “Maximillian,” she snaps, hands on her hips. “Do you plan on acknowledging the existence of your own company today, or are you merely here to steal coffee and disappear again?”

“Ah, Loretta. Haven’t quite decided yet,” I quip. But there’s no use kidding ourselves. We both know it’s the latter.

Loretta looks exactly like she always does. Her big red hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, sensible flat shoes holding up her soft, grandmotherly frame, her reading glasses hanging on a chain around her neck. She could be a housemother on a sitcom about wayward geniuses.

And honestly? That’s basically what she is.

She’s wearing a floral cardigan today, dusted faintly with flour. There’s a box of baked goods tucked under her arm. This woman. I can always count on her to load me full of carbs.

Loretta moved to Northern Virginia from Hanover after becoming an empty nester, supposedly to be closer to her grandkids. But I’m convinced she just wanted a new flock to manage.

“Don’t you Loretta me,” she says, narrowing her eyes at me. “You’re ten minutes late, you probably skipped breakfast, and if that’s your third cup of coffee, I swear I’m cutting you off.”

I lift the mug in a mock toast. “Good morning to you too.”

She huffs but falls into step beside me anyway, herding me toward my office like an unruly sheep. “We’ve got a new account,” she says. “Mid-sized logistics firm out of Baltimore. Ransomware attack overnight. They’re panicking. Apparently, someone told them you’re the only one who can clean this kind of mess without creating any additional destruction.”

I grimace. “That’s a flattering exaggeration.”

She lowers her voice. “They lost personal data, Max. A lot of it.”

My jaw tightens. That kind of case always jumps to the top of my list. I can’t help wanting to protect the underdogs. Victims. Anyone getting screwed over by something they never saw coming. It’s the one place I can channel all the anger I don’t know what to do with.

“They’re on hold,” she adds pointedly. “And before you ask, yes, I told them you’d handle their request personally.”

I stop outside my office door, letting out a groan, “Lorettaaa.”