Snow

nto the computer, beginning a search for the

ered a dedicated high-spee

ly, Donald's reservation woul

's core system dire

o social en

excuse was flawless. "Mr. Mcgee wants to prepare a surprise for Miss Snow in

models for the smart

default admin passwords and known firmware

me. "Are you... plann

an insurance policy. One that wi

c Wi-Fi as a springboard, I waited un

aker's recording function and gained te

need a fu

and voices clearly identifiable, would

sickening sounds of inti

without a flicker of emotion, then sile

nce, saved it to a nondescript USB dr

pon was

ed at

ough, glamorous enough, for every

s eyes

stood imm

nd started scrolling th

urday. The Mcgee Family Foundation's annual charity gala, at

e on the screen, a slow smil

't be mor

video of them having s

sked. "Donald certainly won't bring me,

journalist for the New York Chronicle. For an event like this, not

led with gratitude. "Brylee,

the dust, you can buy me champagne for

et her lighting guy, Mike Jone

rp, intelligent eyes that linger

t waste

velope acros

hick wit

t, a USB

ction system at the gala tomorrow night," I

s eyes widening. Still, he hesitated. "Th

nce and then erase all traces of itself. Besides," I added, my voice dropping sligh

s a favor to me. You know Brylee

Alright. For Brylee.

umber," I told him. "The sign