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interviews only to have them tell me they’ve stopped interviewing for that position. Which was a nice way of saying “not interested.”
    Worse yet, I discovered no one would hire me because I’d been fired for “misconduct of a nonbusiness nature.” That piece of information was leaked to me by a kind soul at the unemployment office. I was persona non grata there, as well. No checks from the state hit my mailbox. Even those online personality tests had it in for me with their trick questions.
    You’re fucked. You’ll never work in this town again.
    I shouldn’t have mouthed off to the office manager, but my offbeat personality had its roots in my traumatic childhood. Shuffled from one foster home to another, I pulled off numerous crazy stunts to get attention. When I was in junior high, the other kids wouldn’t stop bullying me, saying I was different and didn’t have a real family. So I hacked into the school computer to find out what was in my file. Much to my disappointment, I didn’t find out anything I didn’t already know.
    When I was in high school, I wrote a software program to help me learn fact-driven data at a faster pace. Instead of praise for my efforts, I got stung for my antics. You’d think I’d done something wrong, like designing a T-shirt with a logo that was really a cheat sheet. Since then, I learned to shy away from people to keep from getting hurt.
    When I went away to college to get my degree in computer science thanks to a scholarship, I found the only way to be accepted as an equal by the übergeeks was to play down my looks with jeans and red plaid flannel shirts.
    And glasses.
    I shied away from getting contacts. I had to admit I used the specs as a shield against the world. Recent life-changing moments showed me I couldn’t hide anymore. The naked truth was, I was desperate. Past-due rent and an empty fridge were a real incentive for me to rev up my computer skills.
    Time for me to do a little snooping to set the record straight.
    * * *
    Dawn.
    There was something about my old company at this time of day that got to me. Like it wasn’t real, only imagined.
    A gothic gingerbread house.
    Fog sat lazy and white over the trolley wires, while the winding streets gave off a mood of nonchalance before dealing with the seething passion of the morning sun. Birds flitted from tree to tree, flapping their wings to keep warm.
    I pulled my flannel shirt closer around me to keep out the wet chill as I traipsed in my clunky leather boots through the pink and white azaleas around the back of the house. I was amazed how the delicate flowers tugged at their roots in their attempt to grow tall and strong like the wisteria vines hugging the worn brown sandstone. They provided great cover for my private entrance, allowing me to enter unseen through a hidden door leading into a basement room used for storage.
    It was a jib door that looked like a window. When lifted and opened, it led into the rear of the house. Most likely it had provided a discreet means of entry for the Victorian gentleman or lady wishing to return home unobserved.
    For me, it was the perfect way to sneak inside and put my plan into action.
    I treaded carefully so as not to disturb the plump cat snoozing outside the secret door. A habit of hers recently. I’d arrived at the office before anyone else and then waited for the security guard to make his rounds before gaining entrance. No worry. I knew his habits. He did his job in slo-mo. By the time he came this way again, I’d be long gone. I knew what I was looking for. We all left our digital footprints. You just had to know where to look.
    Two days ago I installed a device to track the keystrokes the office manager made on her keyboard. Yesterday I recovered it, uploaded it to my computer and then retrieved her password. I was well aware I was guilty of hacking, but I firmly believed I’d been fired unjustly. I felt warranted in righting that wrong. I just wanted my life