Hold Tight Read Free

something like that-repeated the question: “Are you sure?”
    Tia had her arms crossed. Her face was stern-there was no give there. She looked older to Mike, though no less beautiful. There was no doubt in her voice, just a hint of exasperation.
    “Yes, we’re sure.”
    Mike said nothing.
    Their son’s bedroom was fairly dark, just the old gooseneck desk lamp was on. Their voices were a whisper, even though there was no chance that they’d be seen or heard. Their eleven-year-old daughter, Jill, was in school. Adam, their sixteen-year-old, was on his school’s junior overnight trip. He hadn’t wanted to go, of course-such things were too “lame” for him now-but the school made it mandatory and even the “slackiest” of his slacker friends would be there so they could all bemoan the lameness in unison.
    “You understand how this works, right?”
    Tia nodded in perfect unison to Mike’s shaking his head.
    “The software will record every keystroke your son makes,” Brett said. “At the end of the day, the information is packaged and a report will be e-mailed to you. It will show you everything-every Web site visited, every e-mail sent or received, every instant message. If Adam does a PowerPoint or creates a Word document, it will show you that too. Everything. You could watch him live-time if you want. You just click this option over here.”
    He pointed to a small icon with the words LIVE SPY! in a red burst. Mike’s eyes moved about the room. The hockey trophies mocked him. Mike was surprised that Adam had not put them away. Mike had played college hockey at Dartmouth. He was drafted by the New York Rangers, played for their Hartford team for a year, even got to play in two NHL games. He had passed on his love of hockey to Adam. Adam had started to skate when he was three. He became a goalie in junior hockey. The rusted goalpost was still outside on the driveway, the net torn from the weather. Mike had spent many a contented hour shooting pucks at his son. Adam had been terrific-a top college prospect for certain-and then six months ago, he quit.
    Just like that. Adam laid down the stick and pads and mask and said he was done.
    Was that where it began?
    Was that the first sign of his decline, his withdrawal? Mike tried to rise above his son’s decision, tried not to be like so many pushy parents who seemed to equate athletic skill with life success, but the truth was, the quitting had hit Mike hard.
    But it had hit Tia harder.
    “We are losing him,” she said.
    Mike wasn’t as sure. Adam had suffered an immense tragedy-the suicide of a friend-and sure, he was working out some adolescent angst. He was moody and quiet. He spent all his time in this room, mostly on this wretched computer, playing fantasy games or instant-messaging or who knew what. But wasn’t that true of most teenagers? He barely spoke to them, responding rarely, and when he did, with grunts. But again-was that so abnormal?
    It was her idea, this surveillance. Tia was a criminal attorney with Burton and Crimstein in Manhattan. One of the cases she’d worked on involved a money launderer named Pale Haley. Haley had been nailed by the FBI when they’d eavesdropped on his Internet correspondences.
    Brett, the installer, was the tech guy at Tia’s law firm. Mike stared now at Brett’s dirty fingernails. The fingernails were touching Adam’s keyboard. That’s what Mike kept thinking. This guy with these disgusting nails was in their son’s room and he was having his way with Adam’s most prized possession.
    “Be done in a second,” Brett said.
    Mike had visited the E-SpyRight Web site and seen the first inducement in big, bold letters:
    ARE YOUR CHILDREN BEING APPROACHED
    BY CHILD MOLESTERS?
    ARE YOUR EMPLOYEES STEALING FROM YOU?
     
    and then, in even bigger and bolder letters, the argument that sold Tia:
    YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO KNOW!
     
    The site listed testimonials:
    “Your product saved my daughter from this parent’s worst