10:16. The train is halfway to Harrisburg. As I watch the blur of trees and telephone poles out the window, I drum my fingers on my briefcase. I'm not even sure why I brought it. Force of habit, I guess.
I look around at my fellow passengers. Across the aisle, in the seat facing me, is a silver-haired gentleman wearing an expensive pinstripe suit reading The Wall Street Journal. The part in his hair is so precise it looks as though it's been cut into his scalp with a laser. My first guess is that he is a government official but he's too well dressed. He's a lobbyist. Whoops. Can't say lobbyist. What I mean is that he likely represents a Political Action Committee. There. That's better.
In the seats further down the aisle sit two middle-aged men wearing ill-fitting suits and scuffed shoes. Both are busy texting. These guys are probably state government employees. The older gentleman is making a bold statement with his hair. He's fully committed to the comb-over. He styles the hair behind his left ear up and across his scalp and down the other side of his head. Those hairs must be six to eight inches long but they're not going anywhere. They're shellacked to his head with a heavy coat of some sort of hair product. If he had little plastic hands and lines extending from the corners of his mouth to his chin, he could pass for a life-size ventriloquist's dummy.
My fellow passengers and I have exercised our skills at ignoring or pretending to ignore the woman, who for the past 30 minutes, has been engaged in an angry and loud cellphone conversation, using the f-word as punctuation. It makes me sad to think that this must be everyday life for her two kids who don't even flinch at the profanity. The bigger kid, probably eight years old, lies in the aisle, throwing punches at an imaginary villain hovering above him while his younger brother eats yogurt from a cup with his fingers.
As the train slows at the next stop, I'm grateful that the woman and her unfortunate kids prepare to depart. Still deeply engaged in her phone conversation, she details her plans to confront the person who has made disparaging remarks and F them up. The little kid leaves a trail of yogurt smears on the metal poles and seatbacks on his way to the exit.
It's not until the train has pulled a few hundred yards away from the stop that I can no longer hear the irate woman's aggressive voice. I lift my briefcase onto my lap and open the lid, removing the manila folder on top. It's filled with Trollamex documents. I look over my shoulder to ensure that I'm not being surveilled. I don't notice any prying eyes.
I open the second manila folder to find another set of corporate documents. Damn it. What happened to the photo of the ape and his pet dog? Megs and I have been trading that folded piece of paper for years. At first, I have a vague recollection of leaving it in the hotel room back in Bluefield, West Virginia. I imagine that some underpaid housekeeper finds it wedged between the nightstand and the bed, unfolds it, sees the faded image of the monkey with his pet dog, shakes her head and throws it in the trash. But then I remember. I put it in Meg's pocket when I was trying to break through her wall of anger and resentment. And she was so angry and resentful that she didn't even look at it. I hope she didn't throw it away.
Let it go, Phil. Think happy thoughts.
#######
12:48. I enter Harrisburg's Cornerstone Coffee and am greeted with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. I scan the shop and don't see Brenna among the patrons. The pastries and baked goods catch my eye. Boy, those coconut macaroons sure look good. I order a coffee and a couple of macaroons and carry them to an open table. I choose a seat facing the front of the shop with an unobstructed view of the front door and window. Setting my briefcase beside my chair I bite into my macaroon. My taste buds are rewarded with a burst of buttery deliciousness.
At a nearby table, I notice a man wearing a ballcap who happens to be eating coconut macaroons. I try to make eye contact with him and give him a nod or a thumbs up to signal my delight in joining the brotherhood of coconut macaroon eaters. But he stares straight ahead, chewing slowly. He's perfectly content with his solitary dining experience. Or maybe he's on medication.
#######
1:07. My coffee has gone cold. I rise from my chair with a refill in mind when Brenna comes through the front door. I freeze. She sees me and makes her way to the table. She's not smiling. Now that I stop to think about it, I'm not sure I can remember her smiling. Not ever. I return to my seat.
"Get me a coffee, Phil."
"Small? Medium? Large?"
"Surprise me."
I order two coffees, a regular for me and a large for Brenna. I watch her take her eyeglasses from her shoulder bag, then zip it closed. I can certainly see Megs in her sister's pretty face. The same graceful angle of her nose. The same strong McSorley jawline. As I approach the table carrying both coffees, I note a difference. In Brenna's eyes is the unmistakable glint of ferocity and deep ambition.
I place the large coffee on the table in front of her. "So, how's your day so far?"
She rolls her eyes. "About what I'd expected." She sips her coffee.
Through the front window, I notice a man with a thick head of blonde hair and sunglasses walking by slowly, peering into the shop.
"You using a ghost phone, I hope?" She opens a packet of Stevia, dumps it into her coffee, and stirs.
"I don't know what that is."
She bites her lower lip. "A ghost phone."
"I heard you. I don't know what a ghost phone is."
"For privacy. I hope you're not using that." She gestures toward my iPhone. "And a personal computer for communication and research."
"Well, yeah."
She shakes her head. "They can track you. They can read every keystroke."
"So tell me about a ghost phone."
"You have an old smartphone?"
"Yeah."
"That's what you need to use from now on."
"But I communicate with Megs, er, Megan on this."
"That's fine. I'm talking about your "corporate situation," Phil." She uses air quotes for emphasis to mock me. "That phone is loaded with data that spills out into the ether in every direction. That's how smartphones are designed. You don't want that." She sips her coffee.
"I sure don't."
She leans in and lowers her voice.
"Download an app like Hushed." She shows me the app on her phone. "It generates disposable numbers for calls, texts, whatever. Then you need a VPN."
"A VPN?"
"Virtual Private Network. You want to use public wifi as often as possible, like from a coffee shop or a library. But if you're stuck using your own wifi, a VPN can provide anonymity. And it encrypts. Even if they manage to hack you, they won't be able to read your info."
"I like the way that sounds."
"So when you've been surfing the web..."
"I've been using Incognito mode on Google Chrome."
She gives me a facepalm.
"What?"
"For God's sake, Phil. Start using your ghost phone through a VPN."
The blonde-haired man with sunglasses peeks around the window frame, staring at me. I bolt from my seat and race to the door. I get tangled with two guys entering and fight my way outside just in time to see the mysterious stalker hobble down the street, jump into the familiar white van and drive off.
When I re-enter Cornerstone Coffee, I approach the two young men standing in line.
"I'm sorry about that. Did you see that guy?"
One looks at the floor, the other turns away muttering something about "douchebag."
Brenna shoulders her bag. I rush to the table.
"Don't leave. Please don't go."
"My day has been sufficiently turbulent. I don't need childish, erratic behavior." She tosses her coffee into the trash bin.
"That guy has been following me."
"Three things, Phil. One, if you've been conducting business on your phone and home computer, they don't need to physically follow you. You've been providing them with all the information they'll ever need. Two, if you can detect someone following you, they're amateurs. Big corporations don't hire amateurs to do their dirty work. Three, when you compulsively react to situations with bursts of theatrical behavior, you're playing right into their hands. Before you can present your case, they'll have depicted you in the court of public opinion as unhinged. Swipe left. Case closed."
"I'm new at this, Brenna. I desperately need your help."
She doesn't say a word. Her penetrating eyes fix on my right eye than my left as she evaluates.
"Please don't leave. I'll buy you a macaroon."
"Coconut makes my skin crawl."
"They have a lot of other--"
She turns abruptly and returns to our table. She transfers her bag from her shoulder to the back of her chair. I slip into my seat. She checks her phone.
"I can give you twelve minutes. Make your case."