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The words fell onto the shattered crystal and spilled bourbon of the master bedroom with the concussive, hydrostatic shock of an eighty-pound iron depth charge rupturing an armored bulkhead.
She erased her entire digital existence thirty minutes ago.
Marcus Hale stared at the tablet screen held in front of his face. His chest heaved beneath his starched tuxedo shirt, his bow tie hanging loose across his chest like a severed noose.
On the digital terminal, the red administrative alerts flashed in continuous, mocking cascades:
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PASSPORT REGISTRY: INACTIVE // IDENTITY OVERRIDE
CELLULAR SUBSCRIBER IDENTIFIER: PURGED
DMV DRIVER DATABASE: ZERO RECORD
DOMESTIC BANKING CONDUITS: CLOSED BY BENEFICIARY
HALE DYNAMICS SECURITY REGISTER: ACCESS LEVEL TERMINATED
“That’s impossible,” Marcus choked out, his throat working violently as he shoved the tablet away, sending it clattering across the dresser top:
“She is an English literature graduate from Stanford! She volunteers at the botanical conservatory! She spends her afternoons organizing floral arrangements for charity galas! A woman like that doesn't wipe an enterprise-grade security server!”
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