"Cassie!" Grey jogs toward my desk. "I got the warrant."

He drops a holo-projector on the desk, d-chip clipped on, and waves a hand over it. Sure enough, it lights up with the necessary approved paperwork.

"Now will you explain this plan of yours?"

"OK." I answer, spinning my chair around to face him. "What's the best thing about the dark web? From a law enforcement perspective, I mean."

He glares at me. I know it annoys him when I do the whole I'm-going-to-make-you-say-what-we-know-as-if-I-were-quizzing-you thing. He told me once that it makes me sound like a cliché detective movie from the 2010s, but I'm too excited about my case to care, and besides, he's fun to annoy.

After a few seconds, he says, with a sigh,

"The anonymity makes it easier for undercover ops. Criminals can't tell if they're messaging a real client, or an officer. But that doesn't work in this case—"

"Because she's a hacker," I finish for him. "She can access the security cameras at the meeting spot, and since everyone has a phone, smartglasses, or some other device with a camera, she can see basically anywhere she wants. And, she'll be more careful after that disaster of a police raid. That's why we can't just go undercover to set up a meeting with Codebreaker — she'd know if we had a police squad waiting for her. But, that's where Evan comes in. He can ask to meet with her again, and when she checks the cameras near, well, wherever they decide to meet, she'll just see him."

"He's a real client." He says, nodding. "Better, he's someone she's already met. And the warrant for the bully's laptop is for motivation, then? We tell Evan that if he agrees to help us, we'll get the laptop and delete whatever that guy's been using to threaten the girl he likes. But, I have one more question—"

"What actually happens at this meeting?" I guess, and he nods again.

"Yeah, we can't have police backup waiting, she'll see them. Even if our people park several blocks away, she'll see if they try to get closer to apprehend her."

"That's why we're not sending a team." Shoving some papers around my cluttered desk, I manage to find what I'm looking for and hold it out toward my partner.

"A pCard?"

"With a hidden trace program on it. When she uses her collection device to accept the payment, it'll flag the receiving account."

"You want to hack a hacker?" My partner asks, looking unconvinced.

"It's not a perfect plan, but the trace program is well concealed in the payment card's upload sequence. It wouldn't show up on basic security algorithms, antivirus programs or debugging scans."

"Feel like translating from tech-speak?"

"It's not invisible, but she wouldn't find it unless she knew to look for it."

"Which she wouldn't, because she has no reason to suspect Evan."

"Exactly."

"OK. Sounds like a smart plan." Mild concern flashes across his face as he looks down at my desk, at the two paper coffee cups, one of which is empty, and my empty UNBI-logo mug. "Cassie, when's the last time you slept?"

I shrug. "Only, like, a day ago."

"A day as in 24 hours?"

"No, a day as in the other number of hours in a day." OK, maybe I need to tone down the sarcasm a little.

"Have you at least eaten anything?"

With an innocent smile that says 'does this count?', I hold up the remaining half-full to-go cup. He shakes his head.

"I'm getting you a bagel or something, 'kay?"

"OK. You're an angel, you know that? Seriously, you're amazing."

With a small laugh, he answers, "Yeah, I'm also pretty amazing at my job. Which, for the record, is not getting you food." He starts walking toward the door. "I'll be back in 10."

"Thanks. Later, partner."

The day goes by quickly after that, in fact, it feels like the hours are flying by. Grey and I finalized the plan to send Evan undercover and submitted it to the captain, and now we just need to wait for his approval and Evan's agreement.

The rest of the day is spent working with a cyber specialist who teaches me how the dark web chats — that's the forum hackers like Codebreaker use to communicate with their clients — work. He explains that criminals (not just hackers — the dark web is also a popular marketplace for drug and weapons dealers, really all sorts of illegal contraband) set up profiles with some limited information about their "business". He shows me Codebreaker's profile, which contains her username, her country, and a private message button. When I ask, mostly to myself, why she would bother revealing her country for in-person meetings when she could just send her programs to her clients as a file, the cyber-operative explains that it's actually a sort of a copyright issue. If she sent her programs digitally, the receiver could see her code, and potentially copy it. Usually, hackers will take this risk for simple programs, but ensure the privacy of their more complex projects by delivering them on unviewable, automatic-release d-chips. The client simply clips it to a computer and double-taps, never actually getting a look at the code. Also, some clients simply prefer in-person meetings, as was the case with Evan.

Before leaving to help with another case, the agent sets up a dark web portal on my computer. While I'm not supposed to contact Codebreaker directly, I figure I may as well try to learn more about her. There are a few public posts on what looks to be a sort of message board, but most of them are useless, just requests to open a private conversation. A few of them mention programs she's made, and it's clear she's reputable among these people. There are also occasional mentions of a messaging group, suggesting that perhaps the UNBI's theory of a private group chat in which hackers communicate with each other was correct. Of course, I have no idea how to access it, and from what I've heard, even if I managed to get the URL I'd be locked out. Even the few deep-cover operatives who have tried to infiltrate this theorized group have failed to gain access. It seems these people know when they're talking to a fake. Still, that doesn't stop me from spending the rest of the day searching for hidden clues to this mysterious group chat. Hours pass by and I hardly notice, until finally I remember to check the time. 21:54, and I'm alone in the office.

With a yawn, I lean back against my chair and reach for my phone, finding seven new messages from my girlfriend.

Becca Lively: Hey, are you almost home? I'm making pasta :)

Becca Lively: Rachel? You're on your way, right?

Becca Lively: Are you working late again?

Becca Lively: Hello?

Becca Lively: I messaged Agent Grey, he said he left three hours ago... are you still at work?

Becca Lively: Look, something important's going on, can you please come home?

Becca Lively: Rachel, can you at least remember to tell me if you're going to work late? Or answer your messages? Something?

Shit. Looks like the time isn't the only thing I forgot to check for the past three-and-a-half hours. Quickly, I shut off my computer, pack up my bag, throw on my coat, and head out the door, typing a response as I jog toward the subway station.

Rachel Cassanova [Me]: So sorry babe, I totally lost track of time. On my way now.

* * *

Hesitantly, I open the door, ready with my well-rehearsed apology.

"Becca, I'm so sorry, I was so caught up in my work I hardly noticed the time, I—"

But on the other side of the door I don't find a nearly empty house containing one (1) annoyed girlfriend. No, much to my surprise, sitting at the dining room table next to Becca are none other than my parents.

"What are you doing here?"

"Hmm, nice of you to show up, Sweetie," my mother says, rather passive-aggressively, and clearly she couldn't resist adding, "...eventually."

How do I respond? The options circle through my mind. I was busy with work. I didn't realize I was having company. I have a full time job, mother, and believe it or not, I have more important things to worry about than you. Eventually I decide on an equally sarcastic,

"Nice of you to let me know you were stopping by."

"I see you've still got the attitude."

"I see you've still got absolutely no respect for boundaries or my personal life," I shoot back.

My father lowers his voice to my mother. "I told you this was a mistake."

I grit my teeth, trying not to get angry. That's me, my parents' big mistake. Yanking my lanyard with my UNBI badge off my neck, I head toward the stairs.

"I'm getting ready for bed."

"Rachel, wait—" my girlfriend calls after me, but I ignore her.

Once in my room with the door shut, I breathe a sigh of relief. How long was that, two minutes in the same room as my parents? And I've already run away. Great.

Becca's light footsteps follow me up the stairs, and I know she's at the door before she knocks.

"That's what you tried to tell me, right?" I ask, opening the door a crack. "In one of your messages, you said something important was happening,"

Becca nods. "I'm sorry, I should have been more specific, but you weren't answering your messages. I thought you'd call or something, and I could explain..." she trails off, and I lean against the door frame, letting quiet fill the space.

Becca breaks the silence first. "What happened between you and your parents?"

I shake my head. How can I tell her about something like this? Feeling the need to say something, I open my mouth and end up asking her why she let them in.

"I couldn't just shut the door in their faces," she says, as if it should be obvious.

"Well, actually, you could have..."

"Rachel. Come on."

"What? It wasn't your decision to make, to just— just invite them in for dinner!"

"I was just being polite..."

I roll my eyes. Becca has good intentions, I know, but sometimes she cares too much about all the social customs and being polite.

After clearly getting exasperated with my prolonged silence, she asks,

"Are you just going to hide up here forever?"

A twinge of anxiety finds its way into my mind, that familiar phrase in my father's voice rising to the surface: You can't hide forever.

"Fine. I'll go talk to them," I answer, my irritation clear, and step past her, toward the stairs. I won't hide.

"Thank you for joining us, Rachel. You know it's the adult thing to do," my mother says, her voice laced with condescension.

I'll let that one go.

"So, what brings you here?" I ask, trying to change the subject before I accidentally make a sarcastic remark.

"Well, we haven't seen you in years, Sweetie. You never answer our calls. Must be pretty busy with that fancy international job of yours."

"Either that, or you're just ignoring us," my dad says, with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. I force a laugh, and even my extraverted girlfriend looks uncomfortable.

"Oh, that's not the word I'd use..." My smile is equally as fake as my father's.

After an awkward moment of silence, Becca mentions something about getting cookies and hurries into the kitchen.

"A good host might ask how we're doing," my mother points out.

"Oh, I'm sorry, are my hostess skills not sufficient for this out-of-the-blue ambush?"

"Careful with the sarcasm," my father warns, and my mother adds,

"I'm just reminding you how to be polite to your parents."

"At least I didn't send you out the door," I say flatly.

"Well, it's not like you had much of a choice, Sweetie."

"I always have a choice."

"Oh, where'd you learn that one?" My father asks caustically.

"Figured it out around the time I left you two," I snap back.

"Shame. You leave and so quickly forget everything I've taught you."

Taught me? Now this one, I'm not letting go.

"You really are an asshole, Father."

"And you really haven't changed. Still talk back to me. Still don't learn." He spits his words. "If even I couldn't fix that smart mouth of yours, I suppose you're just not fixable."

"Oh, you sure did try, though," I say, giving up on keeping the nonexistent peace.

"I'd still be trying, if you hadn't—"

"Does it hurt you, that you don't have power over me anymore?"

"You little—"

"I bet it does. It must drive you crazy. That I escaped. That I'm untouchable now."

"You know, if your sweet little girlfriend weren't here—"

"Then what?" I ask, hearing the ice in my own voice. "Is that a threat?"

He opens his mouth to say something, but stops upon seeing Becca in the doorway from the kitchen.

"So, umm, cookies, anyone? I made chocolate chip for the class, forgetting that one of the moms offered to make the snack that day. Oh, I'm a kindergarten teacher," she clarifies for my parents, holding out a tray.

"Thank you, dear," my mother says, taking a cookie. Oh, how quickly she shifted from disappointed mother to kind houseguest.

"So, how have you been doing, living on your own?" My father asks, somewhat suspiciously.

"Well, it's been, what, 10 years? It's nothing new." What was he expecting me to say? I'm a normal adult, living a normal life.

"I don't think you've made an effort to contact us since you left," he says, and before I can respond, my mother adds,

"I'm sure you were just busy, right Sweetie?" in a tone that makes it very clear she knows that's not true.

"Sure," I answer, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. Apparently my attempt was unsuccessful, however, because my father says,

"Enough with the scorn, Raquèla. And you look so shocked to see us."

"Well, excuse me for being a little surprised by you showing up out of nowhere."

"It's your own fault for ignoring all our calls." My mother's voice maintains that annoying tone of 'I know best'.

"Right, everything's my fault, isn't it?"

"We're your parents, you can't just ignore us."

"Actually, I can."

"Well, can you blame us for wanting to check up on you?"

"Check up on me? We both know that's not what this is."

"What would you call it, then?"

A confrontation, I want to say. A hostile encounter. But Becca looks uncomfortable, and I don't want to involve her in my family problems.

"I'm just saying, it's a little invasive to show up without warning." I choose my words carefully. Invasive instead of rude, creepy, pushy, insolent—

"Oh, but Sweetie, you left us no choice." Again with the choices, Mother?

"Besides, 'respect your boundaries'," my father mutters, quoting me from earlier, "like you ever knew anything about respect."

My anger flares up, as if my fight-or-flight response just automatically kicked in, and for a moment all I see is red. Respect.

"Tu hijo de puta—" I start to shout, stepping toward him. Becca grabs my arm, and I jerk away from her instantly.

Taking a few slow steps back, I notice my breathing is getting faster.

"You—" I reach my hands up to my face, combing my hair back with tense fingers. Dropping my arms back to my sides, I ball my hands into fists and turn back to face my parents. "Vete a la mierda! Get the hell out of my house, right now!" My eyes lock onto them, and I feel as if I'm not human anymore, but some kind of machine. A robot. Tracking their movements, analyzing their faces, scanning the room for dividers, hiding places, escape routes. My father's favourite word still echoes in my mind.

"Raquèla—"

"Don't call me that! My name is Rachel, or— or, I don't know, Agent Cassanova if you'd rather. I don't care, just get out, now!"

After what seems like an eternity, they reach the door, and after making sure it's locked behind them, I walk back upstairs without another word. In the full length mirror, a girl breathes heavily, and for a few seconds, I don't see myself. Not my adult self, anyway— I see a young, scared little girl, hiding in her room from someone who will inevitably find her. Racking her brain for somewhere to go, a nook or cranny to provide a few more minutes of shelter, hidden from them. Trying to conceal her emotions, her fear, as to not show weakness. But as soon as she appears, she is gone, and I see only my reflection. And I am not a child. I'm not weak. I'm a strong, 26-year-old woman with a successful career as a highly trained UNBI agent who is more than capable of defending herself. And I'm not scared. Just really f*cking angry.

But that doesn't change the fact that the phrase I've heard way too many times will be going through my head all night.

It's about time you learned some respect, Raquèla.