They say the best way to hide something is to leave it out in the open for the world to see.

Or, in case of information, make the elements of a potential search so common, they will sprout a million pages of useless entries.

Damn Connor Michaels and his common, completely unoriginal name. Damn the fact that I can't even be sure his name isn't actually Michael Connors, because at this point, I'm willing to accept that possibility.

But no, my memory is precise, as it always is when I acquire targets. And, given his snide remarks, his defamation of my work, and the possibility that he might have figured out I'm behind TMI, Connor Michaels has become one of my primary targets.

If his name wasn't so impossibly lame, then maybe I could actually find something useful on him. Google has betrayed me, and Facebook is about to take that route as well... Until I finally see him. Thank God for proximity and the algorithms of the internet meant to bring people who want nothing to do with each other together.

I pull the laptop over my crossed legs and squint at his profile picture. He's tiny, his dark hair is longer, and he's wearing sunglasses, so I'm not one hundred percent sure it's him. The guy stands leaning against a bike, the backdrop a lush mountain scenery from maybe West Virginia. The profile is private, so I can't find out more, except that he's not a figment of my imagination.

I leave the laptop on the bed and pull higher into my pillows. Ever since I was a little girl, my bed has always been my safe haven. Like an island in the middle of the stormy sea, everything just worked better when I was in bed.

It started with my love of jumping on top of it, despite my mother's request that I act like a lady. Then, as school started, it was easiest for me to concentrate on writing and reading in the place I felt safest. Even now, after we moved away from the place I grew up, at least I still have my bed. I'd huffed and puffed that I want my old one, together with my pillows and sheets. My mother never understood why I'm so particular about my sheets, but she only knows how to get them dirty, anyway.

I pick at the tiny sheep on my comforter, but for once, I'm not presented with a valid solution for my issues. His last name doesn't appear in Congress, so I can't identify if he might be the heir of some influential politician. But, just like me, he could be the offspring of support staff. Those aren't listed anywhere, and there's a million of them, so even if I were speaking to my father, there's a good chance he doesn't know the mysterious Michaels either.

The thought pushes the air out of my lungs, and the edges of my vision turn a little blurry. I try to take a deep breath, but the air isn't enough anymore. I could let this go, I could throw Connor Michaels in the pit of discarded characters for his lack of importance. Except he might know. And I have no idea who he is or how to shut him up.

The lack of air becomes a burn in my lungs and a pain in my chest. My eyes grow wider, but the quality of the image only deteriorates. I can't breathe!

I need help.

I can't need help. I don't want to need help.

My eyes are burning and I don't want to cry. I don't cry. It solves nothing.

And yet, moisture gathers in the corner of my eyes. I refuse to blink and let it pour down my cheeks. I finally take in a rattled breath, and some of the pressure on my chest seems to ease.

You have someone this time.

I grit my teeth at the thought, but the existence of Marisa Delterre tames my panic attack. Yes, this time I have someone I can ask, someone who might give me more information on this new potential threat. After all, if he's a threat to me, he's a threat to her.

"Damn it," I mumble, getting out of bed. 

There are no words for how much I hate doing this, but I head to my closet and take out my black hoodie. As I pull the hood over my head, I glance at the bed. There's a feeling in my stomach like I just dropped through the air. Has it lost its power? I've never had a panic attack in my bed. It was supposed to be safe.

I shake my head and open the door, determined to get this over with. If Marisa has no information, I'll just make her stalk him and get something on him to ensure his silence. I've been through worse.

The moment I open the door, piano music drifts from downstairs and I swear I vomit a little in my mouth. What the actual fuck?

With cautious steps, I make my way downstairs, looking over the banister as I go. My father, wearing his good tuxedo no less, sits in front of the grand piano, playing one of those pathetic melodies you hear everywhere. I think it's Balade pour Adeline or some shit. But it's not that which brings the nausea back to the forefront, but my mother leaning on the top of the instrument, wearing a light grey flapper dress, and drinking him in like he's one of her rum and cokes.

They're waiting for guests and hope to be surprised in this position, make the talk of the town. Show how balanced they are, how in love. The falseness of it makes me sick to my stomach, and for a moment, I actually forget about Connor Michaels and Marisa Delterre.

Harold stops abruptly once I reach the final step and Jocelyn's eyes drift to me.

"Hi, sweetie," he says. "Will you not be joining us for the party?"

"What party?" 

I'm just asking to annoy them, since Jocelyn was kind enough to bug me about the damn thing for the past month. A lot of important politicians will be coming, and they wanted to display me like a big fish trophy for everyone to see. I couldn't care less about their desperate attempts to climb the social ladder.

"Adrienne," Jocelyn says, trying to sound reprimanding, but already slurring her words. "I told you about this evening ever since we planned it. I know you said no, but please reconsider. For your father. And for me."

Weakest possible argument, but I can tell she really wants this. I see no other reason she hasn't mentioned my hoodie yet.

"Sorry, busy." And just like that, I slip on my boots and charge out.

I hear them calling my name, but I ignore them, stopping only when I'm three houses down to tie my laces. Cars zoom past me, and I can tell the party is about to start. I guess I should consider myself lucky that I have a place to go for the evening. Maybe I should take Marisa Delterre as what she is - an opportunity.

The walk to her house is short and to the point, and it takes me mere minutes to climb up the tree in her yard and come face-to-face with her window. She's in there, headphones on, scrolling on her phone. I break off a twig and throw it at her window. She sits up right away and hurries over.

"What are you doing here?" she asks as she opens the window.

"Just let me in and I'll tell you."

She moves out of the way and I channel my inner squirrel to get inside. It's much harder than going out, with the branches swaying dangerously under my weight. She reaches out her hand, but I ignore her, managing to grab the ledge of her window. My feet find shingles and I scurry inside the room. Maybe I should start working out some, because my muscles are screaming in pain.

Marisa shrugs and leaves the window open, as if to ensure she can push me out if needed. I don't care, I just drop back in the chair in front of her desk and spin to face her.

"There's been a development."

"Do tell," she mutters, dropping on the bed. She picks up her phone for a moment, then tosses it aside. "Do you ever put in rumors of your own, or only follow up on what other people claim?"

My muscles tense and I shift in my seat as my mind tries to calculate the implications of an answer. "When I started, I obviously put the rumors in myself. Now I don't have to."

She nods as if she took secret meaning from my words, and I just want to open her head up. But there are other pressing matters, more important then her questions about TMI.

"Why did you blurt out that absurdity in school without consulting me first?"

She huffs. "I'm sorry, Batman, but since you gave me no way to contact you, I couldn't consult you. Also, I told you I don't have all day. We need to get this thing kicking if we want the golden circle to get what's coming to them before the end of the school year."

She had a point, and in hindsight, it was good that she said it, but it still annoys me to no end that she went all rouge on me. So with an annoyed sigh, I reach out my hand.

"What do you want?" Marisa asks, her tone suspicious.

"Your phone, valedictorian. So I can punch in my number."

I can see she wants to argue about some insignificant detail, but she caves and hands over her phone after unlocking it. Good to know she has a fingerprint lock because she's not an idiot. I save my number into her phone and call myself to get hers.

"You don't call me," I say. "Have something to say? Text. I'll call you back if I believe it's worth it."

She doesn't comment and I'm instantly suspicious, but maybe she's just getting used to the fact that it's either my way or no way at all.

"I don't think you're here to scold me on furthering our plan," Marisa says, pocketing her phone, "so what do you want?"

Her not to be a rude ass, maybe. It wouldn't kill her to offer me a cookie or a glass of water. But she's right. I'm not here to waste my time.

"What do you know about Connor Michaels?"

Marisa frowns and her luscious lips turn down. At this point, I can't tell if she's thinking because she has nothing, or is annoyed by my question.

"I saw you talking to him today," she finally says. "What was that about?"

"Little asshole is butting in."

Marisa sucks air through her teeth. "That's not good news. How so?"

"You tell me."

"I mean how exactly is he butting in."

"None of your business."

"Then I can't help you."

Fuck this trust thing. How can I know what she'll do with the information? But I came here for help, and there's always a price to pay. As much as I hate it, I can't go around this. There's no other reasonable solution.

"He might have seen me confirming the rumor on Hunter Gilligan and might suspect I'm behind TMI." My stomach seems to sink through the floor once she winces and pulls back. My nerves spike up so dangerously, I find myself blurting out, "Not to mention he doesn't respect my work."

"This is bad," Marisa says, chewing on her lower lip. "We need to get him on our side."

"What?" 

Before I can even begin to process the utter garbage coming out of her mouth, she stands and begins to pace the length of her room, her hands clasped behind her back.

"Connor is smart. And if you got into a fight with him, like you probably did, he'll follow up on it just to spite you. He'll catch on, like I did, and that's a risk we can't take."

I want to snap at her, tell her to sit down, correct her faulty thinking. Except I have nothing. She's completely right. If he's as smart as Marisa claims, and I believe her, then we're in for trouble we don't need.

"He could be an asset," she continues. "He has access to Rod and the other boys that I lack. We have to think about it like that."

I can tell she doesn't like the situation any more than I do, and it's the only reason I'm keeping quiet. The threat of Connor Michaels makes Marisa seem like a friend. We're in this together, and she's as interested as I am to keep TMI going and staying under the radar. And her suggestion is devious enough to work. You catch more flies with honey after all.

"We still need collateral," I say.

She frowns at me and fortunately stops pacing. "What do you mean?"

"We need to have something on him. Something to guarantee he won't rat out on us."

Marisa ponders on this, and I'm sure she's wondering what I might have on her. "I don't know much about him. He transferred recently and is brilliant in the classes we share. He mostly keeps to himself, but I've seen him talking to the guys in the golden circle. As far as I know, he doesn't play football, but I haven't been to any recent games. You're right, though. We'll need to gather as much intel about him as we can."

I nod, bouncing my knees. She does a double-take, as if she can't believe I agreed with her. It's pretty surprising to me too, but I no longer see her as a threat. Not when she's so adamant to keep things between us.

"I agree," I finally say, because she still keeps staring as if she doesn't believe it. "You try to charm him at school and I'll see what I can get on him outside of it." I don't even know where he lives, but school records should fix that.

Marisa gives a short nod and drops back on her bed, looking exhausted. "Okay. I'll text you when I find something. Now, if you don't mind, I have a whole bunch of unfinished homework."

I do mind since my house is a cesspool of aspiring politicians, but I don't want her to think I actually want her company. So I just shrug and head out the window. I stop with my butt on the windowsill and glance over my shoulder.

"What really happened between you and Davey Postvam?"

She starts, a notebook already in her hand. Her green eyes glaze over, and I wonder if she's just tired or actually wants to cry. The sad smile on her lips confuses me to no end, but her answer makes me hate her again.

"I can't go through that now. I have work to do. Plus, don't you know everything?"

I turn away, gritting my teeth, humiliation burning inside my chest. What was I thinking, outright asking her? She's not my friend. She's just a ruthless girl who happens to share my goals. "Maybe I want your side of the story."

"That's sweet. We'll talk some other time."

I don't wait for her to say more and she can shove her sweetness up her ass. I hop into the tree and make my way down. Screw Marisa Delterre. And especially, screw Connor Michaels. I'll get something on both of them, and then I'll be back in control.

For now, I just have to fake normalcy for the few seconds it will take me to walk through the hallway of my own house and up to my room.

The lights coming from the french windows of my house is blinding, and the classical music from inside drills into my eardrums. The sound of laughter drifts outside like some sick symphony of shattered dreams and backstabbing. I can imagine my parents laughing, holding hands in the midst of their guests as my mother most likely searches for her next target.

This has nothing to do with you. This is not your world. It never was and it never will be. A world of lies and fake smiles. Like Hollywood celebrities, there's no consistency in the lives of politicians. And there is nothing more ruthless than a rising one, my father included.

I don't want to see this, but my eyes involuntarily take in the scene as I step into the hall. The cavernous dining room to my right is filled with socializing people in fancy frocks, and I instantly see my father talking with Senator Geld. What stuns me is that I see some of them have brought their kids. 

There's no mistaking Rod Wiseman's bleached blond hair and his entitled gait. He's talking to Davey freaking Postvam inside my house, both of them looking stylishly bored. Inside my house. 

I want to throw up again. I look away from them and freeze. There's another figure I can recognize, even if I've seen him just once before, but I've been stalking him relentlessly for the past few hours.

Connor Michaels is in my house.

And as he turns with a casual laugh, he stares straight at me.