Instead, I grab the clone I made of Jackson’s phone. It’s a less sophisticated clone. With Hallie, I used a special SIM card I designed myself. The ones readily available on the market wouldn’t do what I wanted them to do, mostly because it would be very easy to use that kind of technology unethically. Which I am, but I needed up-to-date information on what she was doing, not just a copy of everything she had done up to the point of cloning. In order to get what I wanted, the SIM card in her phone and the one in my clone had to be linked.
With Jackson’s phone, I didn’t need to keep up with anything new. I only wanted a phone with copies of every photo, every video he ever took of her. I wanted their text message chain, the private messages sent via social media. I wanted to know every godforsaken link she had ever shared with him.
I wanted the Hallie Meadows back catalog: Jackson edition.
When I pull up the photos, it doesn’t matter that her smile is for him and not for me. I scroll through and click the one of Hallie smiling happily at the phone camera, her face flushed, nose red from the cold, snowy weather. She’s wearing her hair back, a bit damp and messy from the weather, and a knitted scarf. She’s holding the hand of a dark-haired, red-nosed little girl bundled up in a snow suit. The girl is probably around 2 or 3. I don’t know who it is, but I know Hallie looks happy. You can practically see the faint glimmer of maternal yearning in her eyes.
She’s mad right now, but that’ll pass.
Hallie will be a wonderful mother. I know she wanted children. Perhaps not mine, but she wanted them someday with someone, and I think in time she’ll find I was an excellent candidate. The men in my family tend to be assholes, but at least we’re intelligent, and the women are quite lovely all the way around. Good looks and healthy bodies run pretty strong. If she were flipping through a book of qualified candidates at the sperm bank, I think she’d find mine quite desirable.
As long as we have a daughter instead of a son, everything should be just fine.
It doesn’t matter, anyway. It’s done now, so she has to accept it.
I swipe away from the picture of Hallie and scroll through more photos. I’m tempted to play one of the clips, but I don’t want to risk Hallie hearing her own voice and coming to investigate. I’m not sure how I would explain why I have a video that she sent to her ex-boyfriend. Sure, I could say he sent it to me, but I don’t want to lie to her.
I do want to cheer her up, and she’ll probably still insist on going to her work meeting tomorrow, so I take her phone out of my drawer, double check that it’s hers and not the clone I made—they have different cases so I can keep them straight—and pop it on charge so she can have it tomorrow.
I also want to see what she does all day when I’m not here. I know she’s upset, so I want to see if she reaches out to anyone or shares our good news. And, if I’m being honest, I want to know what she says if she does.
I lock up the drawer again and tug The Count of Monte Cristo off the shelf. I tuck the key away, then slide it back into place among the other leather-bound editions. Nothing about this one makes it distinguishable. I even ensure the spine lines up with the others so it wouldn’t be noticeable that I’ve taken it off the shelf recently.
There.
I go back to the kitchen to grab Hallie a fresh bottle of water and her soup, then I carry it to the bedroom.
She’s sitting up when I get there. I have a lap desk in the corner that I’ve used for work on occasion, so I set it up for her on the bed.
She’s still a little sniffly, but in good enough spirits to quip, “Neat tray. Did you bring your previous hostage girlfriends breakfast in bed or something?”
I smile faintly, walking around to my side of the bed. “Of course not. You’re my first reluctant girlfriend. I’ve never had to work so hard for the previous ones.”
She dips the spoon into the bowl and scoops up a bit of broth and carrot. “Tell Chef Ryan I said thank you.”
I nod that I will, watching her carefully bring the soup to her lips. “Make sure you rehydrate, too,” I remind her.
She chews the carrot, dropping her spoon back in the bowl and uncapping the bottle of cold water I brought her. “Thank you,” she murmurs.