Need (15 page)

“The site is up and running again.”

“And who knows how long that will last. It went down once already. The last thing you want is to call Officer Shepens and have the site go down again. You need to have some way of proving what NEED is doing, and I have an idea.” Nate shrugs out of his coat. “Do you mind if I use your laptop for a sec?”

I get out of the way as Nate slides behind the keyboard.

Clicking from one screen to the next, he explains, “Jack is being weird and the chances are good that he's been given a NEED fulfillment request he's not wild about. If we can find out what that request is and report it, Officer Shepens can monitor my brother and catch him in the act. We'll be able to expose NEED, bust my brother, and prove that we're telling the truth all in one fell swoop. And since I used my brother's account to send myself an invite, I know his profile code. He uses the same password for everything he does online. I'll just log on as Jack, go to his profile page, and . . . What the hell is this?”

A message box with red block writing appears on the screen.

THE ACCOUNT YOU ARE ATTEMPTING TO LOG ON TO IS NOT AUTHORIZED FOR THIS IP ADDRESS. TO ACCESS NEED, USE THE VALID ACCOUNT INFORMATION THAT WAS CREATED ON THIS COMPUTER. IF YOU FEEL YOU HAVE RECEIVED THIS MESSAGE IN ERROR, CONTACT THE NEED TEAM AND WE WILL ATTEMPT TO ASSIST YOU.

“I don't get it.” Nate closes the message box and returns to the Login screen. Less than a minute later the same error message is displayed and Nate turns to face me. “I just tried to log on to my account but it won't let me. I was able to get into my account from this computer before. They must have updated the system when it was down earlier.”

“Why?” I read the message again, wishing I knew computers better. Mostly, I use them to surf the Internet, do my homework, and answer email. “IP address. That's like a serial number or something?”

“Sort of,” Nate says as he pulls out his phone and taps on the screen. “Except a serial number is just for ID purposes. Depending on what kind it is, it can identify the owner or where the computer was manufactured, but that's about it. An IP address not only gives information about what kind of machine it is, but when you're on the Web, people can use an IP to track the computer to its physical address. Oh hell. Look.” He holds out his phone so I can see the same message from my monitor displayed on the small screen. “I can't log on to NEED from my phone. It looks like they've updated the system to only allow users to connect from the device the account was created on. That's just weird. Most social media sites want users to be able to access their account and post from any location. That's how NEED operated before.”

But no longer. Maybe because NEED isn't about social interaction. At least, not the kind we're used to. It's about something different. I don't know what that is, but whatever its purpose, I'm pretty sure the change in login and the new inability to see other users' profiles is a way to hide whatever is coming.

“Can you move for a minute?” I ask. “I want to log back on to my account.”

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Nate pushes back the chair and stands, giving me room to sit. I type my account information and password. When the NEED screen appears, I scroll down the message board, looking for anything that might give a clue as to what's going on.

The picture of the bakery box on Amanda's front step is missing. So is the one of our front yard. But there are others. Photographs of a broken mailbox, a snow-covered shed, and a car tire that is well and truly flat. Each photograph must represent some act that a NEED member performed, but it's impossible to say what effects the acts might have had or who was behind them, so I keep scrolling until I suddenly stop.

Blood.

“That can't possibly be real?” Nate asks, leaning over my shoulder. “Can it?”

“I don't know.” I don't want to know. My stomach heaves. “You're the horror movie expert, Nate. What do you think?” Does the blood-soaked snow look too red to be real? Do the bits of flesh and bone and fur (Is that brown fur?) look like something a person could pick up in a store?

“It has to be fake.” But he doesn't sound so sure.

“Why?” I swivel my chair and turn my back on the screen.

“Because it's the only thing that makes sense. The whole point of creating these kinds of sites is to cash in. Start small. Build a big network and then sell advertising and harvested data you collect from all the users who are posting cat pictures and relationship crap.”

Nate would know. He spends way more time than I do on social networking sites. For me, they're tools. A method for me to try to track down my father and a way to remind people that DJ needs help. Not that either has really worked. But it's better than doing nothing. Nate, however, loves watching how the people we know behave online. He says it's the only way to see someone's true nature. It's a fairly simple choice to be nice to someone who's right in front of you. After all, as Nate says, why risk a punch in the face if you don't have to? But online there's an invisible shield that Nate claims allows people to feel protected from the consequences of their actions. Because of that, they stop behaving like they are supposed to and instead do what they want. No matter who they upset or hurt.

“What's your point?” I ask as Nate's eyes remain latched on the grisly photograph with a strange intensity.

“My point is that no one would put that much time and energy into a potentially hot new social networking site if they weren't interested in a big payoff. And the only way someone rakes in the cash is if they rack up the number of users and keep the users coming back for more. Making users do things like that . . . It just doesn't make sense.”

“Unless this network isn't about making money. I mean, really, think about the money the site has to be losing.” I navigate to the screen with the NEED fulfillment counter.

NETWORK MEMBERS—688

NEEDS PENDING—685

NEEDS FULFILLED—214

“Someone has already spent a lot of money. If the site grew bigger, they'd have to spend a whole lot more.” Certainly more money than they could make back any time soon. Maybe they could change the rules about what kinds of . . .

Wait. I look at the numbers on the screen again and suddenly I can't breathe. “Nate.” My voice is thin. “Didn't you say the whole purpose of a social networking site is to get as many users as it can?”

“Yeah.”

“And we've learned that once you create an account you can't delete it.”

“Which isn't unlike a lot of the other sites out there. They claim you can erase your profile, but it never really goes away. Which is disturbing, but I don't understand why you're talking about it now.”

“Because if no one can delete their profile, then the number of users should always stay the same or go up. Right?”

“Yeah. So?”

Blood pounds loudly in my ears as I think back to this morning, before I called the police. Before NEED shut down and updated its site. “So, Nate, the number of users has gone down.”

“I
DON
'
T KNOW
how it happened, Jim. The car was fine this morning.”

Gina slowly creeps down the hall outside the kitchen and rolls her eyes at the familiar argument. Her father loves to scream about every dent and ding in the car, and her mother automatically protests that it wasn't her fault. Then, after several minutes, Mom apologizes profusely and Dad goes off to watch football. Her mother always ends up being the one who says “Sorry.” Mom says that being right isn't everything and you can get more bees with honey than with vinegar or some crap like that. Well, from the sound of it, Mom is going to need to dump a hell of a lot of honey on Dad. And it better happen soon because Gina has somewhere to be, and standing around bundled up like a mummy in this coat and scarf is starting to make her sweat.

“Well, it's not fine now,” Gina's dad yells. “How the hell can something like that happen and you not know about it?”

“The car was fine when I got home from the store. I would have noticed if it hadn't been when I took the groceries out of the trunk. Did you leave the garage door open after you got home?”

“You think this is my fault?”

Gina shakes her head as she inches toward the side door.

“I don't know whose fault it is, Jim. Gina's been grounded from driving, but maybe she snuck the keys again.”

Hey, that's not fair. It wasn't her. She's pissed as her father yells her name and orders her to come to the kitchen.

Now what? Stay and deny that she had anything to do with the car? Or leave? The choice is easy. She opens the back door and slips outside. The minute the door closes behind her she runs, feeling angrier with every step. How could her parents automatically think that she had anything to do with whatever happened to her mother's ugly car? Parents are supposed to be on your side. Hers missed that memo.

Gina ignores the ringing that comes from her cell deep in her coat pocket next to the bottle she found tucked into a small box on her windowsill. Shivering, she slows her pace and turns up the driveway of a brown house decked out in blue and white twinkly lights. When the front door opens, she smiles.

“Hey, I hope you don't mind that I'm early. Ever since I learned about Amanda I haven't been able to even watch TV without crying. I thought I could help you set up for the memorial thing. At least then I'd be doing something useful.”

Lynn is happy to let her in. Lynn is one of the younger cheerleaders. She looks up to Gina and she probably wasn't sure who would come when she sent out an email about hosting a gathering to deal with Amanda's death. She asks Gina for her coat but Gina begs off. “I'll just keep it for a little while until I warm up. My parents didn't have time to drive me over, so I walked. It's really cold outside.”

Lynn's parents are happy to see Gina too. They don't suspect a thing when she helps them put out bottles of soda and large plastic cups and then asks to use the bathroom. Her fingers are unsteady as she opens the door of the medicine cabinet and sees the Tylenol bottle on the middle shelf. Just where NEED told her it would be.

H
ANNAH FROWNS
at her reflection. The makeup has helped remove most of the evidence of her tears. But no matter how much eyeliner and waterproof mascara she uses, her eyes still look tired and her face, washed-out. Maybe she should change her sweater. Amanda would have been able to tell her what color would be best. Amanda always knew.

Tears that Hannah has been working to keep at bay spill over.

“This sucks.” She swipes at her cheek and ignores the ache at the base of her skull. Amanda would have been upset that Hannah has been crying all day. She didn't like tears or sad things. Every time they watched a movie, Amanda insisted on a romantic comedy. Something with a happily ever after. Amanda would have approved of what Hannah is doing tonight, though, including not telling her parents more than they need to know. They already said Hannah could go out. There's no reason to tell them that her destination has changed.

Crap. Whoever said this makeup is waterproof is dead wrong. Grabbing a tissue, Hannah dabs at the smears under her eyes and walks to her closet.

She puts on a fitted, deep green top with a V-neck that always elicits a raised eyebrow from her father. But it isn't as low as the tops he sees a lot of girls wear at school, so he never says anything. Hannah knows he would break that silence if she told him she was meeting a guy instead of going to the Amanda memorial, but what he doesn't know won't hurt him.

She checks her phone and looks at the text she received an hour ago.

Hey. It's Nate. Jack gave me the message. Are you okay? Which is irrelevant to ask because I know you aren't. If you need to talk, I'm here for you. Maybe we can get together the two of us? I hate thinking of you going through this alone. Oh—and this is a new phone. My parents don't know about it, so text me. Don't call.

A couple of texts later and she had a date with the boy she's been crushing on all year.

“Hannah, honey?”

“I'll be down in five minutes, Mom,” Hannah calls, snagging a hoodie off the end of her bed. No point in having her father see the green shirt and ask unnecessary questions.

She glosses her lips pink, looks in the mirror again. She still looks sad, but Nate will understand. She knows he will, because he already understands how much she needs to be with him—with someone who gets what she's going through. Now she just has to do one small thing so they can be alone.

Hannah takes a last look in the mirror and heads down the hall to her parents' bedroom. The shouts she hears from downstairs tell her a video game competition is under way. The keys are in the middle drawer of her father's nightstand. The code to the security system is written on a yellow sticky note affixed to the inside page of her father's journal. Her father has a terrible memory, which is why he always carries the journal with him when there's a chance he'll need to turn the alarm on or off at school.

After sliding the yellow note and the keys into her purse, Hannah hurries downstairs. She doesn't want to keep Nate waiting.

Her mother volunteers to drive her to Lynn's. “The snow is really starting to come down,” she says.

“Thanks, but if it's okay, I kind of want to walk. I think the air will help me feel better.” Lynn's house is in the opposite direction from where Hannah has to go. But if her mother insists on driving, she'll just take the ride and let Nate know she'll be late.

The sympathy in her mom's face makes Hannah want to cry again. “Are you sure?”

Hannah nods and swallows back the tears that are fighting to escape.