Chapter 14: Brock's Computer

I never imagined I'd run into the manager who interviewed me that morning at Swiss E-Commerce Corp, right here, of all places. Turned out she lived in Metron, and she was even Brock's next-door neighbor. Her outfit immediately caught my eye. She wore a black tank top that showed off her pretty collarbones and long, pale arms. The neckline plunged low, with plenty of cleavage on display, enough to make me want to reach out and grab her. Below, she wore gym shorts, her long legs smooth and almost glowing, enough to make me swallow hard. Compared with how she looked at the office, this outfit made her look way sultrier and stripped away some of that crisp, businesslike edge. I figured she was heading downstairs to toss her trash. Instead, she dropped the bag by her door and went back inside. So she planned to take it down in the morning. Once her door clicked shut, I finally tore my eyes away. As gorgeous as Jayla Santee was, she hadn't played fair, and the failed interview still stuck in my craw. My attention slid back to the Zimmermans' place. A quarrel drifted through the wall-Brock's voice clashing with a woman's. "Didn't you damn well call me and say our son is burning up with a fever? What the hell is this, then?" "What are you talking about? I didn't call you tonight, and I didn't text you either." "You playing me? Want me to pull up the messages and shove them in your face?" I snickered under my breath. Even if he pulled out his phone, it wouldn't do him any good. On the way here, I'd already wiped the texts and calls, and I'd spoofed my number so it showed up as his wife's. The arguing rolled on, but I had no interest in eavesdropping. I took out my phone, found their Wi‑Fi, and, once connected, saw there was indeed a laptop on their network. A spark of anticipation flared. If I was right, the photos had to be on that machine. After a few minutes, I hacked into Brock's computer. I didn't expect to find dozens of gigs of porn on his hard drive. After a bit of digging, I found a folder called Photos. Inside were two subfolders, one labeled "Marlee Casson," the other "Jayla Santee." Seeing Marlee's name made my pulse jump. That folder had to hold her pictures. The "Jayla Santee" folder gave me pause. The name rang a bell, and then it clicked-Jayla was the manager from this morning. I'd looked her up after she called me last night; HR listed her as the manager. Why did Brock's computer have a folder for Jayla? Had he done something unspeakable with her as well? Shock and suspicion tangled together, with a strange flicker of excitement threading through. I opened Marlee's folder first. Sure enough, there were more than twenty shots of Marlee. They were explicit, taken in a room that looked a lot like the duty room. The first photo showed Marlee bare to the waist, bra and white coat pushed down around her hips, a pale expanse exposed. A dark, rough, fat hand clamped around one of her full breasts, mauling it without restraint. The next three were tight close-ups of her breasts, shot in sharp detail-high and flawless in shape, her areolas a soft pink, her nipples clearly getting harder from shot to shot. The fourth captured Marlee's face. She looked as if she'd just woken, eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed, her expression hazy with sleep. The fifth showed Marlee bent over a desk, completely naked now. Her smooth back, a slender waist, and the perky curve of her round, peachy butt were fully exposed. Brock's meaty paw pressed down on her-it hit you in the gut even in a photo. Several more focused on her ass, red marks striping the skin, probably from spanking. The next few showed Brock taking her from behind. Marlee's body twisted, slick with sweat, but her face was out of frame. I stopped there. The more I looked, the angrier I got. I didn't even know what came over me. Maybe it was the thought that something I hadn't even had a chance to touch had been ruined by a grotesque, heavyset old man. It felt unfair, like buying a brand-new phone only for someone else to play with it first. It really got under my skin. I deleted every photo in the folder all at once and emptied the recycle bin. I finally let out a breath. If Brock opened that folder and found it empty, he'd be stunned. Done with Marlee's folder, I closed it and, heart pounding again, opened Jayla's. There were a dozen or so shots. I skimmed them and, for a moment, thought Brock and Jayla had something going on. They turned out to be everyday candids. Jayla bent to pick something up, her deep cleavage and the curves of her breasts filling the frame. Or she climbed the stairs, and he snapped an upskirt shot from below. There were lots more of the same. All they proved was how twisted he was. Then I reached the final photo, and it grabbed me by the throat. It was taken in a bedroom, the angle from above, as if it were shot from the ceiling. A big bed filled the frame. Jayla was completely naked, straddling someone. She arched her neck, face tipped toward the ceiling, eyes shut, cheeks burning, teeth sunk into her lower lip-lost in pleasure. The vantage point showed off the supple sway of her waist, her full, pale breasts, and the round, lifted curve of her butt. That perfect figure could set blood pounding. The kicker was, the person beneath her was a woman. Her skin had a sun-warmed tan, her figure was striking, and her wavy hair was dyed chestnut. Both bodies were glistening with sweat. It was a hell of a shot. The room's decor made it obvious this wasn't a hotel. There were dolls on display. The sheets and duvet were purple. It looked like a woman's private bedroom. I stared, stunned. The photo was pure voyeurism, and the overhead angle screamed hidden camera. If this room were Jayla's, then Brock had planted a covert camera in her home. To make sure, I kept digging through Brock's computer. At last, I unearthed a surveillance program buried deep. I launched it, and a 3x3 grid of camera feeds popped up. There it was-the same bedroom from the photo. On the bed, a stunning woman lounged against the headboard, wearing only black lace panties and a pink sleep shirt. It was Jayla. The other feeds showed a kitchen, a living room, a bathroom, a balcony, and so on. I enlarged Jayla's feed. I could make out the book in her hands. The cover read How to Win Friends and Influence People. What really caught my eye was her body. Her sleep shirt hung open, no bra underneath, her breasts half-covered and impossible to miss. Her long, smooth legs were crossed. She read intently and barely moved for a while. I cursed Brock in my head for the filthy creep he was. He had raped Marlee, a married woman, and he'd installed hidden cameras in Jayla's apartment. Then I thought of that hidden‑camera shot of Jayla in bed with another woman, and an idea took shape.