The HAWKE Archives

Part I: Initialization

Chapter 1

ERROR: Access Denied

Blocked. Again.

For the fourth time that afternoon, Carley Hawthorne slammed her palm against the table, her laptop juddering—and hand stinging—with the impact. A few other café patrons looked over at the disturbance but likely chalked the frustration up to a Wi-Fi malfunction. If only it were that simple.

Damn, that didn’t work, either. She’d lost count of how many failed angles she’d racked up since starting this whole thing. Far more than she cared to admit. The twenty-seven-year-old sank into the rigid seat, meeting a few nonplussed gazes as she ran a hand through her black hair.

No one held eye contact for long.

Except for the blond man, about her age, who’d just entered from the front door. Behind him—right beyond the half-frosted glass—Washington Square Park stood brown and barren amidst a blustery January afternoon. His gaze stayed on Carley two seconds longer than everyone else’s.

She peered out over the laptop lid, narrowing her eyes.

That two-second mismatch.

A bit like a side-channel attack—where timing could mean nothing.

Or everything.

A couple more moments passed, and the man didn’t move. Carley chanced a look behind her, and sure enough, a menu for specialty drinks hung right over her shoulder. She almost laughed and refocused.

Okay, this should not be this hard. It’s a travel agency, not some secret government facility. I should’ve passed this layer hours ago.

Slumped behind her computer, she watched as the man strode to the counter to order. With stiff fingers tapping against plastic keycaps, Carley reread her latest execution, made a couple last-minute alterations, and hit Enter.

“Peppermint mocha for Carla!” the barista shouted.

The incorrect name pulled her away from the code compiling onscreen, and Carley locked the laptop. She moved to claim the freshly made drink, the old wooden floors creaking beneath her Converse while the din of the coffee grinder filled the air. She picked up the cardboard cup, plucking a heat sleeve from the dispenser as she turned toward her table.

The coffee crunched on impact, murky brown and white contents splashing across the floor and her shirt—not to mention the wall of blond man she’d clocked moments before.

Carley sputtered and juked left. The thirty-something, mocha-covered man stepped the same way, and they nearly collided again, but he held out a hand to stop her.

She backpedaled, cheeks burning. “Damn, I’m—I’m so sorry!”

“Mhm, clearly,” he said, incensed. “Blimey.” The Englishman regained hold of the unzipped leather messenger bag, which she’d knocked off his shoulder.

“Are you okay? I didn’t mean—”

“M’fine. Reckon I can add dry cleaning to my to-do list, though.”

She raised a brow. “Sorry. It really was an accident.”

He waved nonchalantly, a few droplets flying. The silence drew awkward, yet he didn’t step out of the way. “You should watch where you’re going.”

She didn’t think it was possible, but her face turned redder, in both shame and annoyance.

“Like I said, it was an accident.”

In her pocket, her phone buzzed with a reminder about a work shift starting in twenty minutes, and she didn’t hear the man’s next few irked words. Shit, I’m going to be late for work.

I’m never late…

Acidic, he said, “Are you even listening to me? I swear, you think you’re so—”

“It’s not like I wanted to collide with you. And waste a perfectly good coffee?” she said, vexed herself. “I gotta go.”

“Oi, wait a m—” he started again, but Carley jerked a thumb toward the front door. Instead of heading that way, she hurried in the opposite direction, like a misconfigured automation, running rogue. She set down the half-empty cup, pushed the laptop closed, and gathered up her backpack and hoodie. Rather than head toward the front door—and risk him again—she course-corrected for the side exit.

Ugh. So pathetic. I hope I never run into him again.

* * *

Carley handed the Chromebook across the counter. “Looks like a simple reset fixed it, so you should be all set, Mrs. Maxwell. Call us if any issues come up.” She smiled at the elderly woman, and in her best customer service voice said, “Thanks for stopping by Best Buy.”

The older lady, however, said nothing and left the store. A typical reaction in the thankless world of IT repair.

Jeesh. You’re welcome!

Carley eyed the clock on the computer. Three mind-numbing hours left. She stepped over to see what was up next on today’s list of repairs as someone new arrived at the counter.

Well, not new, exactly.

“Hm, you again,” he said, glancing at the nametag resting against her bright blue polo.

“Carley. Nice to have a name for the face, I suppose.”

It was the surly British man she’d spilled coffee on that afternoon. He’d changed into a dark green V-neck sweater with a checkered shirt underneath. In place of the coffee-doused pea coat, he sported a black utility jacket.

“Oh, no,” she groaned. “You know who I am now. I’m gonna have to move.”

He chuckled, and to her surprise, his next reply wasn’t dickish at all. “Well, if you’re worried about that…” He stretched a hand across the cracked, peeling countertop. “I’m David.

Now, we’re even, and you don’t have to get packing.”

Carley’s lip tugged upward, and she shook the hand. “Thanks, David. What brings you in?”

He removed a black and red gaming laptop from his bag. “My computer won’t turn on.”

Carley took it, examining the device from a few different angles. A grimy residue covered every surface, and her face dropped. “What happened to it?” You idiot. You did. You happened to it.

“Coffee spill.” He may not have placed blame on anyone, but she did, of course.

“Once again, I’m so sorry. This repair is on me.”

“Nah, that’s all right. But I do have a major thesis check-in coming up, and I’d rather not work at the library.” He cleared his throat. “Tell me. Is it knackered?”

Carley first tried the sticky power button. Nothing. Next, she turned it over to remove the battery and base panel. Something glinted on the casing before she could: a bird symbol with a radar effect emanating from the eye.

Odd, but the model seems pretty standard. Stock parts should fit.

She examined the motherboard. More residue had built up, corrosion setting in. If he’d brought it in sooner, it might’ve been salvageable, but it had already been three hours since they’d first crossed paths.

David locked eyes with her. “Well?”

“Motherboard’s shot.”

“But you can repair it,” he said. “Without losing my data?”

Carley shifted her weight from foot to foot. “I can fix it, but there’s going to be data loss.

Did you save your files to the cloud, by chance?”

David rubbed his neck. “It was on my desktop.”

“That’s not ideal. I’m afraid everything on this laptop will be lost.”

“Least I didn’t make much progress since my last check in.” David laughed to himself.

Carley regarded him. “I truly am sorry. I’m happy to cover the repair.”

“That won’t be necessary, love.”

She was about to protest, but the pet name caught her off guard. “But it’s my fault.”

David shook a hand in a “stop” gesture. “How about this? You can pay me back with a cup of coffee. Just…maybe not the way you did this afternoon.”

She chuckled at his clarification, and he half-smiled.

“Henry’s, next Sunday? I’d say this week, but I’m heading out of town.”

She nodded. “Anywhere fun?”

“You bet. A much-needed holiday to Fiji. Should be fantastic.” Carley’s brow practically shot through the roof. Her eye twitched.

Fiji.

Just like Dad.

She immediately tried to rein in the impending spiral. No. NO. Don’t do this now. Not here. It’s nothing like Dad. Loads of people go to Fiji. You can’t just lose your shit every time someone mentions the South Pacific.

She worked the thought away as she noted the increasingly disgruntled man in line behind David. The tell-tale crossed arms. The tapping foot. Ah, the joys of customer service.

“R-right, cool. Never been myself, but I’ve heard…things.” The man’s toe-tap picked up in tempo. “Okay. Gotta keep this line moving. I can have your computer ready by next week.

Sure you don’t need it sooner? You said you had a thesis to work on.”

“That’s wonderful. It’s no problem. I’ll go to the library.”

Carley, wary of him just saying the opposite, quickly dismissed the explanation. “Fair enough, long as you have a plan.” She picked up an iPad. “Go ahead and complete this intake form.”

David entered his name, address, phone, and email. Finally, he used the attached stylus to sign at the bottom.

“Perfect,” she said, reading his full name off the form in that same customer service voice from before. “David Kensington, thanks for stopping by Best Buy.”

David’s small smile stretched into a full grin. “You’re quite welcome.” He was about to leave but faced her one more time. “See you around, Carls.”

Before the nickname could register with Carley, who’d turned away from the counter,

David had already left the store.

* * *

The rest of Carley’s shift ticked by in a ho-hum blur of phone repairs, laptop resets, and screen protector applications. All the while, her mind raced from spilled coffees to fried motherboards, David’s vacation floating by, too. The second time it did, a screwdriver slipped, and a sharp jab to the thumb yanked her back to the task at hand.

She didn’t have time to repair his laptop on the clock, so she charged the parts to her account and went home. Carley flipped on the desk lamp and rummaged through her desk for the right equipment, pushing aside an old lockpicking set. She unrolled a small kit of tiny screwdrivers and laid out every component. Before she cleaned up the casing, she picked up the laptop to look more closely at the bird emblem.

When it caught the light, its color shifted from orange to blue to red and back again. She’d never seen anything like it, and she’d repaired a lot of laptops in her almost five years on the Geek Squad.

Carley replaced the old, damaged components with fresh ones in a matter of minutes. David’s laptop looked new.

“Moment of truth.” She pressed the power button. The screen lit up, went dark, lit up again. It did this for a few cycles before it stayed powered on—the motherboard accustoming itself to the machine. “Easy peasy.”

Carley picked up her phone, but she paused, unsure what to say in a text to David. Tell him the laptop is fixed. It’s not like you’re trying to bypass MFA at midnight. Her thumbs hovered to and fro.

After a beat, she fired off a message: Your laptop lives again.

The phone pinged immediately: My Geek Squad savior, I presume?

In the flesh. Well, SMS.

David sent a laughing emoji, followed by: I’d say I prefer the former over the pixels.

Psh. Surely you don’t mean that.

The response was instant. I do. A millisecond later: And don’t call me Shirley.

Carley chuckled at the reference, made funnier by the fact that it didn’t really work in a written format, before setting her phone down to fill a glass of water. The text thread dinged again when she reapproached.

Hope you’re an Airplane! fan. If not, offensive. You should fix that. Immediately.

She found herself smiling, annoyed by his gall to assume she wasn’t and impressed he remembered the title’s exclamation point. No, course I am. Was occupied.

As she waited for his next reply—because she was, in fact, anticipating one—she cautioned herself against it. Careful, you don’t even know this guy. Could be some sort of sociopath, the world’s next Dahmer, even.

Don’t let me keep you, Carls.

Carley scanned the nickname several times. No one had called her that in twelve years. Not since Dad. Those letters, arranged in that order, made her thoughts short-circuit for the second time today. S’all good. Comp is fixed. Weird brand, btw.

Wonderful to hear. Fast, too, but now I have no excuse not to work on my thesis. So, thanks for nothing.

Carley’s brow wrinkled when he ignored her comment about the brand, yet she laughed out loud at the last part. Sorry. What’s it on?

His typing bubble appeared and disappeared. …this and that.

What is it, some kind of top-secret research?

Oh, Carls, now *that’s* classified. ;)

A small smile tugged at her lips, and Carley grasped her phone a little tighter as she stared into the emoji’s eye. But her thoughts were miles away, somewhere smack between New York and the Koro Sea.

* * *

Early the next morning, the cool air bit through Carley’s clothes as alt rock filled her ears, both motivating her to push harder. The impact of the pavement made her feel alive. It also cleared her head, letting her focus on the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other.

At the corner of Fifth and 79th, she doubled over to take a breather, lungs pumping after her latest sprint. She tugged out her phone to cycle through her playlist, but her cold finger slipped, and she accidentally opened the Messages app—drawing her into the top thread with David Kensington’s unsaved number.

Right, that happened. More than once that morning, Carley thought she’d dreamt up the embarrassing encounter. The coffee collision. His Fiji comment.

Before she could stop herself, she fired off a quick “Good morning.” Re-pocketing the phone, she straightened her beanie and continued with the run.

Until she realized what street she was on, and the Metropolitan Museum of Art came into view on her left. She didn’t normally jog this way. She could never bring herself to, but something had steered her in that direction.

Carley approached the stone steps, noting how urban heat and foot traffic were already turning last night’s snowfall into slush, and slush into puddles. The smell of nearby garbage bags mingled with the damp, reminiscent of an armpit. Beneath the aroma, she caught something else.

A hint of warmth, carried through from a nearby vendor selling roasted almonds.

A smell equal parts cloying and cheerful, like something burning on Christmas morning.

It reminded her of Dad’s old cologne. Sharp on the nostrils, yet as tight and safe as one of his signature bear hugs, something she’d so taken for granted. Her hand balled into a fist, and suddenly, she was seven again.

Terry Hawthorne’s rough, calloused fingers grasped her own tiny ones as they climbed toward the museum. She grinned and looked up, way up. Dad—with his unkempt, jet-black hair and chocolate leather bomber jacket—towered over her like the building’s majestic pillars. On that day, she and Terry had come to see a special exhibit, because Carley had just discovered the glory that was Jurassic Park, and “obsessed with dinos” was putting it lightly.

After spending a couple hours admiring wire dinosaur sculptures and paintings that mimicked fossils, Terry commemorated the occasion in two ways. A silly selfie and a stuffed souvenir. Little Carley had beamed for the camera, holding up her new friend, gift shop tag still hanging from its leg, as the Polaroid camera flashed. But when Terry insisted on another, she did more than just pose with the apatosaurus. She’d growled and made the creature chomp on his arm, even if it was technically herbivorous. Terry feigned being mauled, regardless, and his rich baritone laugh reverberated off the museum along with the shutter click. “Hey, miss. No loitering. Ticket line starts there,” called a voice.

Carley snapped to the present, a Met security guard standing a few feet away. She blinked her watery eyes. “What? Oh.” Regaining her bearings, she half-raised a hand in apology and trailed down the stairs, running her fingers against her palm. She could almost feel Dad’s sandpaper skin on hers.

It wasn’t the same. It’d never be the same again.

More than the purveyor of museum exhibits and stuffed toys, Dad had been Carley’s whole world. Her mom had never entered the picture, and Terry was the one person she’d always looked up to.

In every sense.

He was so goddamn tall.

This is exactly why we don’t go this way. Even twelve years later, you’re still a mess.

She strode a little further. While the memory faded, a few uneasy tines crept up the back of her neck.

Carley turned, observing the few passersby bundled into tight parkas or draped in overcoats. Beyond them, a crossing guard granted and denied cars and pedestrians alike. In front of her, a single NYPD unit slid past. She just couldn’t get rid of the feeling that someone, or something, was watching her.

When nothing happened, though, she shrugged and attributed the itchiness to cold air and sweat. She lived in New York, after all. People were everywhere, all the time.

With one more glance at the crossing guard, she was about to set off on another jog.

Instead, she froze. But not from the winter air.

No, a system error: ‘Carley.exe has stopped responding.’

Several moments later, she blinked, coming back online. That last attempt. She squeezed the side of her head, knocking her headphones askew. I never checked it. Oh, my God. It could be—

Carley, side-stepping to avoid others on the sidewalk, shot off toward the subway station.

She rushed onto the next MTA train, her leg bouncing the whole ride to her Brooklyn apartment.

* * *

Inside, Carley tossed the headphones and beanie aside and made a beeline for her laptop. She slid to the floor in front of the old futon, drawing the computer close.

There it was, on her command prompt, plain as day:

SUCCESS: Access Granted