Is She Having a PMS ?

Our weekend getaway didn't go well in terms of romance, but it uncovered a lot of information about who Jennifer really is—and even more puzzles about her father.

Now, I'm sitting in a café across from Jennifer's office building, my laptop open on the table. While I still need to ensure her safety, there are things I need to dig into.

In his email, Mr. McCourtney wrote, "your other daughter." That means WW has—or had—at least one other daughter besides Jennifer.

There's a high chance that Jennifer's sister is actually her twin.

That thought reminds me of how similar Jennifer looks to Ivan Radwansky's fiancée. Even Jennifer herself couldn't deny the resemblance when she saw it.

I type "Ivan Radwansky's fiancée" into the search bar and hit Enter.

Less than a second later, I have her name.

Rachel Waddleson.

Her last name makes my heart skip a beat.

Besides the news about her engagement to Radwansky, there's barely any other information about her.

But there is an autobiography of another Waddleson.

Walter Waddleson.

WW.

I click on the article, preparing myself for what I already suspect.

Yes.

Rachel Waddleson is Walter Waddleson's daughter.

His only child.

I grab my phone and text Thief.

[Can you find Walter Waddleson's phone number for me?]

[What for?]

I start typing a generic excuse, then delete it.

I owe Thief the truth.

[I think he's Jennifer's biological father.]

Her reply comes quickly.

[What are you planning to do with his number? He can't take your call. He's in a coma.]

I blink.

[How do you know that?]

[I think I heard my mom telling my dad about it a month ago.]

[And you didn't tell me?]

[How was I supposed to know you'd be interested in that?]

I sigh.

[You're right. Sorry.]

[It's fine.]

I read more about Waddleson.

He's a widower. His wife died during childbirth, and he never remarried. Instead, he poured all his time and energy into building his empire—a leading telecommunications company.

I click on a link to his company's website.

And then I see something interesting.

They recently appointed a new CEO.

Guess who?

Ivan Radwansky.

Something doesn't add up.

The café's bell chimes as someone walks in. A man approaches me, carrying a brown package.

I quickly text Thief before the man reaches my table.

[How about Ivan Radwansky's number?]

[Sure, Boss.]

[Thanks, Sweety.]

The man stops in front of me and drops the package onto my table.

"It's from the Boss," he says before walking away.

I open it—it's an external DVD-ROM I had Bob buy for me.

Plugging it into my laptop, I take one of the CDs from my backpack and insert it.

The disk loads.

The screen fills with images.

Puppies.

Kittens.

I eject the CD and try another.

This one is filled with mountain views.

What is this?

One by one, I check all 48 CDs from McCourtney's safe.

All of them contain only pictures.

Random. Meaningless.

I sigh.

Jennifer's father was too mysterious.

There's no way these pictures are just pictures.

I bet my life they contain something hidden.

But I don't know how to decrypt them.

I could just ask Thief for help, but…

I hesitate.

I don't want Thief to see Jennifer's darker side. I don't want her to think even worse of Jennifer.

So, I open a new tab and type:

"How to decrypt hidden messages in images."

I don't expect much.

But to my surprise, there are tons of articles.

I start reading.

Turns out, there are two ways of encrypting data into images.

Metadata encryption. Hidden codes stored in the image's metadata—invisible unless accessed directly.

Pixel encryption. Codes embedded into the image itself by altering its RGB values on a pixel-by-pixel basis.

It's complicated. But doable.

I'll have to write a program to extract the data.

I sigh, checking my watch.

Almost 5 PM.

Weird.

Why hasn't Thief sent me Radwansky's number yet?

I pick up my phone.

It's dead.

I forgot to charge it last night.

I pack up my things and head out. Jennifer gets off at five.

-

I'm already behind the wheel of her car when Jennifer slides into the passenger seat.

Her face is tense.

"What's wrong?" I ask, starting the engine.

"N… Nothing," she mutters, looking away. "Just a bad day."

I reach for her thigh, intending to give it a reassuring pat—

But she swipes my hand away before I can touch her.

"Wow, that bad, huh?" I raise an eyebrow.

She doesn't answer. Just closes her eyes.

After a moment, I say, "I think I know who WW is."

She opens her eyes and glares at me, her gaze sharp as daggers.

"How? You hacked something?!"

"No," I deny quickly. The traffic light turns red. "What's with you today?"

She exhales heavily. "Nothing. Just tell me who he is."

I explain my deduction from this morning.

"But he's been in a coma for over a month. So he can't be the mastermind. Though I have a good guess who might be…" I pause, smirking. "But I need proof, right? So we can arrest him?"

She nods but stays silent.

"So, when are you going to the police?"

"I don't know," she says. "When should I?"

I glance at her briefly before shrugging. "I don't know. It's your idea. I'm just here to protect you."

"Really?" she mutters.

"What?"

"Nothing." She turns back toward the window, avoiding my gaze.

I sigh. PMS? I grumble inwardly.

"I also checked all your father's CDs," I mention carefully.

"How?"

"Oh, I just trespassed the Pentagon and forced their IT department to analyze them for me," I say casually.

Her eyes bulge.

"Seriously?!?!"

"You seriously thought I'd do that?" I laugh. "What's wrong with you today, Babe?"

"Don't call me Babe…" she pouts.

I chuckle and sigh at the same time.

"I bought an external DVD-ROM," I admit. "And yes, I legally paid for it before you ask."

She sighs. "What was on them?"

"Pictures. Lots of them. But I think they're encrypted. I'll figure out how to decode them."

"Why don't you ask your IT girl? Can't she do it?" she asks.

Something in her tone irritates me.

"She can," I say calmly. "But I don't want her knowing your secrets."

She stays silent.

-

Back at my apartment, Jennifer walks in first, turning on the TV and sitting stiffly on the couch.

I sigh, placing my firearm on the coffee table before heading to the bathroom.

When I come out, zipping up my pants—

I freeze.

Jennifer is standing there, my gun pointed at me.

"When are you going to confess that you're an assassin?!"