Burn me slowly

Chapter12: Digital trap

Faye

The New Orleans morning hums with restless energy, sunlight slicing through my dorm window, casting golden streaks across the hardwood floor. The air is thick with chicory and magnolia, a sultry promise of heat, but a chill lingers in my chest, an unease I can’t name.

I’m at my desk, laptop open, the cursor blinking on my Wuthering Heights essay, but my thoughts scatter like jazz notes in the French Quarter’s dusk. I’m not the ghost I was in high school, but Vivienne’s shadow clings, her cruelty weaving a web I’m struggling to escape.

My phone pings, jolting me from my haze. An email from Saint Renée’s registrar: Withdrawal Request Received. My stomach plummets, a cold wave washing over me.

I never sent a withdrawal request.

Clicking the link, I find a form dated yesterday, my name typed in stark precision, requesting immediate withdrawal from all courses. My heart hammers, panic clawing my chest.

This is Vivienne—her venom turned digital, a strike sharper than rumors or scribbled threats.

I bolt to Sam’s room, sneakers squeaking on the dorm’s polished floors, my breath ragged. She’s sprawled on her bed, headphones on, coding on her laptop, curly hair catching the light like a halo.

I wave frantically, and she yanks off her headphones, brown eyes narrowing at my ashen face.

“Faye, what’s wrong?”

“Vivienne,” I choke out, thrusting my phone at her. “She hacked my email, sent a fake withdrawal request to the registrar.”

Sam’s face hardens, her warmth swallowed by a fury that makes the room feel smaller.

“Vivienne’s done,” she says, voice low, a vow carved in steel.

She grabs her laptop, fingers flying as she pulls up my email account.

“Log in. We’re shutting this down.”

I type my password, hands trembling, and Sam dives into the settings, her tech prowess a lifeline.

“Phishing link or brute-force, probably,” she mutters, scanning login history. “Recent access from an off-campus IP. Sloppy, but it’s her style.”

She resets my password, enables two-factor authentication, and drafts a response to the registrar, attaching proof of my enrollment.

“This’ll stop the request,” she says, hitting send. “But we’re not letting her skate.”

I sink onto her bed, relief tangled with dread, the weight of Vivienne’s campaign pressing down.

“She’s escalating, Sam. What’s her endgame?” My voice wavers, the memory of a sharp threat—Back off, or you’ll pay—tightening my throat.

Sam’s eyes blaze, her loyalty a fire.

“She wants you gone, but she’s not ready for us. Her sorority’s got cracks—I’ll find someone ready to spill.” Her humor breaks through, a glint in her eye. “Picture her face if we leak her old MySpace profile. Glitter gifs, bad bangs, the works.”

I manage a shaky laugh, her warmth easing the chill.

Thanks, Sam. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She grins, nudging me. “You’d survive, but it’d be less fun. Now, let’s get Ezra. He’s got tech skills, right? We need all hands.”

I hesitate, the memory of Ezra’s touch last night—his hand on my neck, the fleeting spark of his kiss—stirring a mild warmth. His silence in class still stings, but his sketch, his raw apology, pull me toward him, a tether in the storm.

“Okay,” I say, texting him: Vivienne hacked my email. Need help. Sam’s room.

Minutes later, Ezra knocks, dark hair tousled, green eyes sharp with concern. He’s in a faded band tee and jeans, his casual look softening his usual arrogance, but his presence fills the room, stirring that slow-burn tension.

“What’s going on?” he asks, stepping inside, his gaze lingering on me, searching for signs of breaking.

Sam briefs him, her tone clipped but professional, her anger at Vivienne a live wire.

Ezra pulls up a chair, laptop open, and dives into my email’s backend, fingers deft on the keys.

“She’s using a proxy to mask her IP,” he says, brow furrowed in concentration. “But I can trace the breach and lock her out.”

His focus is intense, a quiet strength that steadies me, and I feel a rush of gratitude, my body tingling as he glances at me, a silent check-in.

As he works, my phone buzzes—an unknown number. I ignore it, but it rings again, insistent.

Ezra pauses, nodding at me. “Could be the registrar.”

I answer, cautious. “Hello?”

“Faye, it’s Jude.” His voice is low, urgent, and my stomach twists, his possessive touch from the lecture hall flashing back, the V on his phone from the jazz club a warning. “Heard about the email hack. You okay?”

“How do you know?” I ask, voice tight, Sam and Ezra looking up, their work halted.

“Word gets around,” he says, too smooth, his charm a thin veil over something darker. “Vivienne’s out of control. I can make her stop, Faye. Just say the word.”

His offer lands heavy, ominous, laced with intent I can’t read. The V text, his intensity, his quick knowledge—they coil into suspicion, a knot in my chest.

“I don’t need your help, Jude,” I snap, sharper than intended. “Stay out of it.”

A pause, then, “Careful, Faye. You don’t know who’s on your side.”

He hangs up, and I shiver, his words a shadow in Sam’s sunlit room, his offer a trap I can’t untangle.

Ezra’s watching me, jaw tight, fingers still on his keyboard.

“What was that about?”

“He offered to ‘deal’ with Vivienne,” I say, unease curling in my chest. “It felt… wrong, like he’s holding cards I can’t see.”

Sam snorts, her humor slicing through.

“Jude’s got that creepy vibe nailed. Ignore him, but keep your guard up.” Her eyes flick to me, worry beneath her bravado, her loyalty a shield.

Ezra refocuses, his screen flashing lines of code, his fingers a blur.

“Got it,” he says, leaning back, a quiet triumph in his voice. “The hack’s reversed—your account’s secure. I’ve set up encryption and alerts for any suspicious logins.”

He turns to me, his hand resting briefly on my lower back, a warm, steady touch that sends a mild tingle through me, building anticipation.

“You’re safe now, Faye.”

My gratitude surges, warm and deep, mixed with suspicion of Jude’s cryptic offer.

“Thank you, Ezra,” I say, voice soft, our eyes locking.

The tension from last night simmers, his touch a spark, but Sam’s presence keeps it restrained, a tease of something growing between us.

Sam claps her hands, breaking the moment.

“Teamwork makes the dream work! Now, let’s trace that IP deeper. I want Vivienne’s digital fingerprints.”

Her energy pulls us back, her laptop a battleground, her fury a drumbeat.

We huddle around her screen, Sam pulling up network logs with a hacker’s precision.

“The IP’s local,” she says, frowning, fingers pausing. “Tied to campus… hold on.” Her voice drops, eyes widening. “It’s from the east dorms—Jude’s building.”

The twist hits like a cold wave, my suspicion spiking.

“Jude?” I whisper, the V text, his offer, now this—could he be Vivienne’s ally, or something worse?

Ezra’s jaw clenches, his hand still near my back, grounding me.

“Doesn’t prove it’s him,” he says, but his voice is tight, doubt creeping in. “Could be someone in his dorm, or a spoofed IP. Jude’s… complicated.”

Sam shakes her head, curls bouncing.

“Too convenient. He’s been off since the jazz club. We need eyes on him, Faye.” Her fierce gaze locks on mine, her loyalty a fire that burns away some of my fear.

I nod, gratitude for Ezra and Sam warring with unease about Jude.

“What’s our next move?” I ask, voice shaky, Vivienne’s trap tightening around me.

“We dig deeper,” Sam says, her fingers flying again. “Vivienne’s not winning, and if Jude’s involved, we’ll expose him.” Her determination is a lifeline, her tech skills a weapon I’m lucky to have.

Ezra’s phone buzzes, and he glances at it, a soft smile breaking his tension.

“My mom,” he says, stepping to the corner. “Hey, Ma,” he answers, voice warm, unguarded, a shift from his usual edge.

I catch snippets—her asking about his classes, him chuckling about a cafeteria burger that tasted like cardboard, promising to visit soon. He teases her about her obsession with gardening, her laughter faint but bright through the phone.

His tone is light, a glimpse of a boy free from his father’s shadow or Vivienne’s games, and it tugs at me, deepening our bond amidst the chaos.

He hangs up, catching my gaze, his smile lingering.

“She worries too much,” he says, shrugging, but there’s affection in his voice, a vulnerability that mirrors mine.

I feel a pull, his warmth drawing me closer, the tension between us a quiet hum, amplified by his touch earlier.

Sam’s back at her laptop, plotting like a general.

“I’ll cross-check Jude’s dorm logs with campus security cams,” she says, focus razor-sharp. “Ezra, can you lock down Faye’s account tighter? I want it Fort Knox-level.”

“On it,” he says, his hand brushing my lower back again as he sits, the touch sparking another tingle, my body alive with anticipation.

I lean closer, our shoulders brushing, gratitude and something warmer anchoring me in the storm.

The room hums with purpose, Sam’s keystrokes a battle rhythm, Ezra’s quiet focus a steady pulse. Jude’s offer and the hack’s trace to his dorm linger, a digital trap tightening.

Vivienne’s game is escalating, her reach deeper than I feared, and Jude’s role—ally or traitor?—is a shadow I can’t shake.

With Sam’s fierce loyalty and Ezra’s unexpected strength, I’m not alone.

I’m Faye Grayson, fighting back, one spark at a time, determined to burn through this web.