Knowing I wouldn’t find sleep anytime soon, I extracted myself from Grayson’s arms and pushed off my bed in search of something to distract me from another hour of tossing and turning. My options were limited since I couldn’t leave my bedroom. I hadn’t heard Hannah come home yet, but I didn’t want to take my chances.
The soft light from my laptop charger caught my attention. My computer would have to do. I could put my headphones in and listen to Taylor Swift covers while pinning DIY projects I’d never actually get around to making. It was my favorite guilty pleasure.
I unlocked my computer and tilted the screen so that it wouldn’t wake Grayson. Once my headphones were in place and I’d pulled up a few songs on YouTube, I switched over to my email, wondering if Brooklyn had sent the funny picture of Jason she’d promised me. I needed a good laugh.
After Gmail loaded up, I scanned the first few unopened emails and frowned, confused by the senders:
[email protected],
[email protected],
[email protected]. Oh. Grayson had logged onto his email a few days prior and I had yet to notice that he was still logged in.
I scrolled up to logout of his account, but before I got the chance, a folder on the sidebar caught my attention. It was the first folder listed and its name was only one word: Cammie.
Why did he have a folder with my name on it?
I glanced over my shoulder to check if Grayson was still asleep. He’d turned toward the wall, but when I pulled out my headphones, I could hear his soft snoring.
I turned back to the computer screen and contemplated my next move. I could sign out of his email and proceed to browse Pinterest until my eyes fell out, or I could scroll over and click the folder, just to see what he’d saved. It was probably something sweet.
In the end, my hand made the decision for me. It moved the curser to hover over the folder and my finger clicked once.
I’d expected a few email exchanges between us, maybe ones I’d overlooked during my short time at Cole Designs. Instead, I found myself staring at a list of emails I didn’t recognize. As I scrolled down, pages and pages of emails continued to load. Some of them were dated back to when I was still in college. And then as I continued to scroll, I saw emails dated all the way back to when I was still in high school.
What the hell? Why are these emails categorized under my name? There wasn’t a single email sent to me or from me.
A cold chill ran down my spine as I scrolled back to the very top of the page. I read the first few email addresses and their subjects. The most recent one had been sent just a few hours earlier.
[email protected] - “Job for associate architect”
[email protected] - “Rent for Unit #450”
[email protected] - “Security System for Unit #450”
[email protected] - “Summer Internship”
[email protected] - “Recommendation for Cameron Heart”
I clicked a random email in the center of the page and waited for it load as dread began to take hold of me.
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Hey Mike,
I understand that your summer internship program is competitive, but I urge you to reconsider Cameron Heart’s application. She’s more than qualified for the position and she’s a personal family friend.
My firm has a few projects we’re looking to pass on due to our current workload and I think your firm would be a good fit for a lot of these clients.
Let me know if you’re interested in the work, and if you’ll reconsider Cameron Heart for a spot as a summer intern.
Grayson Cole, FAIA
CEO Cole Designs
Principle Architect
My stomach dropped and my hand shook on top of my mouse as I reread the email again. I thought I’d interpreted it wrong the first time, but there was no doubt about it—Grayson had promised work to a design firm in exchange for my selection as a summer intern. I’d ended up interning with that company for three months before my senior year of college… and apparently I had Grayson to thank for that.
Sadly, that email was only the beginning. There were email exchanges between him and my professors, emails between him and my old landlords, emails about an anonymous academic scholarship I’d received throughout my four years in college. He’d even coordinated with the dean of my architecture school, all but promising free design services in exchange for my acceptance into their architecture program. Each email was more incriminating than the last and each one I read made my heart break a little more.
I scoured through them for hours, reading every last one until I couldn’t stomach any more. After reading them, one conclusion was painfully clear: for the last few years, Grayson had effectively played God in my life. I’d been a puppet for him to manipulate however he saw fit. I’d been a doll for him to play with.