If Matisse could have sped away, left Mississippi, he would have. But his father needed him, and he’d never asked Matisse for anything. Like any father-son relationship, it had a top-down flow. He needed something; his father gave it. Matisse got in trouble; his father fixed it.

While speeding through traffic, it occurred to him. Why didn’t Dad fix the patent? He was as skilled as Matisse, probably more so since he’d practically designed the technology that kept people out of places they shouldn’t be. His mind dwelled on the question. Each time he tried to shut it down, the thought intruded. Why me?

As he slowed, easing down an exit ramp, the answer came to him. It didn’t matter why. All that mattered was Dad asked, and he could do it.

Without bragging, Matisse could honestly say he was the smartest person he knew. A few more years in the tech world and he’d surpass his father and Rene. The future Dad was promising filled him with excitement. Quantum computing would change everything. Men won Nobel Prizes for theories on it. Encryption, the shield keeping the bad guys out of places they shouldn’t be, would need to be completely reworked. And the company, if what Dad said was true, would be spearheading these advancements.

Unless the employee was allowed to get away with cheating and stealing.

Matisse pulled into a gas station. Using his heel, he kicked down the stand and sat back to rake his hand through his hair and yank on the knots the wind had whipped it into. The sun beat down on him. Without the wind, the humidity and heat reflecting from the pavement were overwhelming.

His decision was made; there was no reason to dwell on it anymore. No more information or explanations were needed. He got on the bike and pulled back on the interstate and sped toward home.

Dad’s car, along with a few others he didn’t recognize, were in the driveway. Knowing the crisis the company was dealing with, he could safely assume these were more work people. Once inside, he zeroed in on the raised voices coming from his dad’s office. He paused for a moment. Should he interrupt? Let them know he was onboard and ready to fix things?

No. He didn’t know what Dad had told his partners and employees; it would make the most sense if he hadn’t said anything. What was the old saying? Three people could keep a secret if two of them were dead?

What he was about to do was illegal, no doubt. He could morally equivocate, but patents were first-come-first-serve. This guy, whoever he was, had patented the idea the company hinged their future on first.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Matisse hurried to his room. Paranoia made him close and lock his door behind him. Laptop humming to life, he sat and drummed his fingers.

There were a lot of things to figure out. He wasn’t sure he could do this from home. If this was a multi-billion dollar idea and it disappeared, people would come looking.

Hiding his presence was a given, but he’d have to bury it under layers and layers of shit. He’d have to make false leads, trails. Add worms to the system.

So much to do.

Mind whirring, he surged to his feet, and paced the room.

Lists and plans.

He had to be a ghost. Leave no trace of what he’d done. What happened in a patent office? Did people file in person? Was there a paper trail? If there was, this plan was moot. No way he could break into the patent office, wherever that was, and Mission Impossible away any evidence of the false patent. 

First thing was first—gather info. This he could do from home. 

His mind worked impossibly quick, and his body hummed with anticipation. Never had he felt so challenged and excited. All his anxiety and worry disappeared in the wake of this task. It didn’t overwhelm him—it invigorated him.

That day passed by in a blur. Furiously working at his computer, he mentally compiled all the information he needed about patents and how they worked. Patents were digital. There would be no written proof his dad’s employee had filed it.

Matisse placed orders for parts he needed. It would give him the speed and space needed to write a program to get him in and out of the government office with no one being the wiser. 

The moon rose, and his mother knocked on his door. “You haven’t come out all day.” 

Immediately, he closed the window. Slower, he spun in his chair before standing to unlock the door. “Sorry.” 

“Can I come in?”

His neck itched, as if his computer had come to life behind him and broadcasted his plans, but he kept himself from glancing over his shoulder. Somehow he knew his mother had no idea what his father asked of him. He couldn’t see Nicole going for it. She’d never approve of anything illegal. And this? This was very illegal. 

“Sure,” he said.

“There’s dinner if you want it.” 

He wasn’t hungry. His body was full of energy, all of which he wanted to focus on this project. Eating and sleeping would only slow him down. 

“I’m good,” he answered, tapping his fingers against his knees. 

“Okay.” Nicole narrowed her eyes. “Come downstairs and get something to eat, and then you can bring it back in here. I’ll get your dishes before I go to bed.” 

Annoyed, he shook his head. “I’m really not hungry.”

“You’ll eat, and then you’ll come back in here. Or you can come into the kitchen, and I can watch you eat. You’re too thin as it is.”

He disagreed. He was fit—his body strong and lean. He might be interested in computers and books, but Davis Prep required physical activity. He played club sports, which he hated.

“And your hair is getting long,” Nicole added.

“Are you going to cut my hair while I make a sandwich?” he asked snidely.

Perfect face creasing in a smile, she opened the door and gestured with an elegant hand. “Let’s go, Lord Byron. Eat and then you can return to writing poetry.”

No one could diffuse a situation like his mother. Trying to hide his smile, he instead sighed loudly. He made a show of pushing in his chair, lining it up perfectly before he closed his computer.

“After you.” He gestured grandly.

“Why, thank you,” she said, voice syrupy sweet.

Once in the kitchen, she watched him warm up leftovers and grab a soda from the fridge. He went through the motions, but even the heavenly scent of his dinner couldn’t tempt him. An energy bar would have been more effective and taken less time to consume. He decided he’d order a box. In a matter of days, he’d be executing his plan.

“Hello?” Genevieve waved a face in front of his hand. “I’m talking to you.” Raising an eyebrow, he waited for his younger sister to continue. “Nothing. I was just saying, hi.”

With a snort, he nudged his sister with his shoulder to take his plate out of the microwave. “Hi. I have work to do.”

“I’m going to get your dishes later, and you better have eaten everything!” Nicole called after him as he left the kitchen. Lifting the hand holding the soda as agreement, he hurried through the house and upstairs.

Even without the parts he needed, he had a million things to do and paused only when his mother knocked at the door to wipe his screen and hand her his plates. “Don’t stay up too late,” she told him, reaching up to kiss his cheek.

“I won’t.” Of course he would.