9. CASSANDRA

My apartment is a study in contrast with Tricia’s. Where hers is all kitsch and kook, mine is all wood and glass.

Functional. Modern. Sleek. Efficient.

It’s funny how a home can be a reflection of its occupant.

The clock said midnight the last time I looked, and the buzz of the wine has long since worn off. I’m pretty sure Tricia had two glasses to each of mine, judging by how dozy she was when I left. The train ride home was enough to sober me up and get me in the right mindset for what I have to do.

I chose this apartment – or, I should say, it was chosen for me by my father – because it has a so-called panic room. It’s a secure space that’s not noticeable from the outside, designed for paranoid people who are worried about home invasion.

In my case, it’s my office. Read into that what you will. At least my office until I decided to leave work behind two months ago.

I reach into my bedroom closet and tap the back wall, activating a spring-loaded switch that causes the false back to slide into the wall. Anyone watching me from the outside would see me disappear into a wardrobe that shouldn’t be big enough for me to fit.

The office itself is purely functional, without a hint of style. It’s about eight feet square, with a simple metal desk, an office chair, my CIA laptop and a thirty-six-inch monitor affixed to the wall. The walls themselves are covered in soundproof panels made of foam wrapped in dark gray fabric.

It won’t make the cover of Style At Home, but it serves its purpose. Hopefully it’s not as much a reflection of me as the rest of the apartment.

I boot up my computer and open a Tor browser – a special program designed to access the “dark web,” a part of the Internet that even Google can’t find. Usually for good reason – they’re often used to sell drugs, weapons and… well, other things you don’t need to know about.

I call up a text-based site I discovered through a dark web search a couple of months ago, and open a file marked “Chase.”

I’ve read it half a dozen times already: there’s nothing new. General information, rules, contact names. I tried to trace it back to its source a few weeks ago in an attempt to find out who was behind it, but I just got bounced from one ISP address to another. Whoever set up the site had serious online security credentials.

There’s no point going through it all again; I won’t learn anything new, and I wouldn’t change my mind if I did. So instead I call up the message board I’ve been instructed to use. I hit enter and green letters appear on a black screen: Your answer?

This is the point of no return.

Yes, I type.

My finger hovers over the enter key for a full minute before I finally take a deep breath and press it.

A green circle comes on the screen and spins for about thirty seconds. When it stops, another prompt: Enter account information. I type in the number of a bank account I set up in Grand Cayman, a haven for money that people don’t want to be found. Another green circle appears when I hit enter, another thirty seconds pass.

More text on the screen: Account will be credited $250,000.00 USD per day until Chase is complete. Maximum term: 14 days.

Now what?

As if in answer to my question, a video file suddenly appears on the screen and auto starts. The camera is focused on a stunning blonde with long, satiny curls and bright red lipstick, sitting in a well-appointed parlor. Her dress probably cost more than I make in six months.

“Hello,” she purrs. She’s worked very hard to erase her Russian accent, but it can’t escape my trained ear. “If you’re seeing this, it means you’ve completed your registration for the Chase. Congratulations.”

Thanks, sweetheart, I appreciate your sincerity.

“This year’s Chase will begin at precisely 12:01 a.m. on July 30. You’ve already read the rules and obligations, so I won’t go over them here. You are required to submit the information requested within twenty-four hours. Please note that your registration is considered a binding contract by the administrators of the Chase.”

She cocks her head slightly and leans closer to the camera.

“Failure to meet your obligations will be considered breach of contract and will be dealt with accordingly.”

Of course it will.

People who offer you large sums of money, deposited into offshore bank accounts via the dark web aren’t exactly known for their laid-back attitudes over breaches of contract. I understand the consequences.

“The Chase will end at midnight on August 13. If you avoid capture until then, the prize will be auctioned among the contestants. The proceeds of the sale will, naturally, be credited to your account.”

The prize.

For better or worse, that’s what my virginity is now: a prize to be won by someone with more money than common sense.

The thought makes my stomach sink just a little bit. But I knew what I was getting into when I pressed that button.

As for prizes, I’ve got my eye on my own, and I’ll win it with the help of the Chase.

The blonde leans back in her chair and folds her hands on her lap.

“You will be contacted on July 27 with more information.”

She smiles, and as she does, I grab my phone off the desk and snap a photo of her on the screen. I don’t know why; instinct, I guess.

“On behalf of my associates, I wish you luck.”

The screen goes black.

That’s all I’ll get until the twenty-seventh.

Three days from now.

The deadline somehow makes what I’ve agreed to seem more real in my mind, and I realize my confidence has been an act.

The Chase itself will be easy, I know that much. But that talk about an auction? It makes me think of the scene in Taken, where women are sold like cattle to the highest bidder. Of course, I’ve seen worse in my time working in the shadowy corners of the world.

I never expected to experience it myself. And certainly not voluntarily.

I leave the office and close the secret door behind me. Wine isn’t going to cut it this time, so I pull a bottle of Jack Daniels from the sideboard in the living room. I pour myself two fingers and knock it back in a single shot.

There’s no turning back now.