How To Hide A Body

The Threat

I had woken up in my four poster bed, in my clothes from last night. I didn't know how I got there and was pretty sure I had fallen asleep at my desk. I felt nauseous, and stiff as I walked down my spiral staircase to my kitchen, where Rachel was cooking what smelt like scrambled eggs and bacon.

"She better not let that burn, not after last time. The fire brigade, I think, have had enough of us," Bart said, placing his hand on my shoulder.

Bartholomew, better known as Bart, had been my father's chauffeur, and Bart's dad had been my grandfather's driver. They ran in the family. Bart was about thirty-five, at least six years older than me. He had his black hair neatly cut and didn't go anywhere without a suit.

"Morning, Bart" I muttered.

I was exhausted and was surprised I had stayed upright for so long. Suddenly I smelt burning.

"Rachel?! The food is burning!" I said.

"Oh no! I forgot about that!" she said, running down the stairs from behind me.

But it was too late. The bacon had burned, and the eggs had seen better days. Starving and tired, I decided that I would go out and have breakfast. I turned around and marched up the stairs.

I got dressed, got my glasses and packed my laptop in my leather bag. In my laptop bag I also had; a pair of contact lenses, my latex gloves (infused with another's fingerprints), a vial of blood (not mine either), and of course some temporary hair dye, just in case I needed to fake my death unexpectedly (I will never be the same after that time in Venice). I quickly put my switchblade in the heel of my boot and then went outside to hail a cab.

My favourite coffee shop was a vintage wooden street-side café, named Coffee Nut. It had great options and was way better than Starbucks. I ordered the usual, a double espresso with extra foam as well as a cheese and tomato toasted croissant. I slid onto a wooden seat which overlooked the street and park where children were playing happily on the other side of the road. I opened my bag to retrieve my laptop and the other papers I hadn't managed to correct last night. I opened my laptop and found I had seven unread emails. As usual, to read them, I had to hack the café's wifi, which took me less than a minute.

The first few were the usual; asking for an appointment, asking me to get information on their bind-dates, asking for advice on how they should fake their deaths, or asking how to kill the neighbour's dog for he wouldn't 'stop shitting in the petunias'. But the last one was going to change my life.

The notification bounced around my screen until I opened it. It was a mere seven worded message.

I need your help. Is this PC? It read.

Before responding I connected to a VPN, so they could not trace me. 

I quickly typed back my usual reply: Yes, this is Sarah Van Zayn. What crime do you need help with? Hacking? Murder? Theft?

I hit send, and reached for my purple highlighter, expecting the reply to come a little later, but it came instantly, and the ping made me drop my highlighter. I bent under the table to retrieve it -accidentally banging my head on the way up- and read the reply.

Blackmail.

Brief and to the point. This guy didn't waste time, and wouldn't make the mistake of talking with the victim, saying what they did and why they were going to die. At least 67% of the time this tactic ended in failure.

Okay. Do you need any information on the victim? Or do you need tactics on how to get it through to them?

I hit send again and waited for the reply.

No, I have everything. The client answered.

Okay... Then what did this guy need help with?

When are you going to threaten the victim? I asked, hoping for more information. I reached for my coffee mug, holding it to my lips, the froth gently covering my tongue like a blanket.

Oh, I think I'm doing it right now.

I choked and spluttered as I read the email, little specks of froth flying all over the screen. I didn't know if it was from shock or laughter. No one had ever blackmailed me before; I don't think they even dared. It was utterly pitiful. They didn't even know my name. I could destroy your life by just hacking your email. Then you'll be regretting this, while you draw tally marks upon your metal cell wall with your broken, dirty nails, praying each day would be your last, as you rot away, slowly turning to dust.

No one blackmails me.

I don't know why I didn't say that. Maybe he would have gotten scared and said it was all a joke and then quickly moved countries and made up a false identity. Instead, I clicked on the email address this person was using, inserted a few lines of computer code to see the sender, so I could access their legal records and destroy their life. The deafening, monotone decline sound echoed around the café. It was a fake, password protected and heavily guarded email address. Almost impossible to hack. Correction, impossible to hack. Even for me, someone who had gotten a Doctorate in Computer science and chemistry, and had an IQ of 151, 9 points away from Einsteins, it was impossible. So instead, I delicately dropped my fingers onto the keyboard and replied:

What could you possibly have on me?

The reply came a few seconds after I had hit send.

You tell me, Miss Solange Lily Southwood.