The Trap

Names changed to protect the identities of those involved.

Shoved against the side of her closet, on the second to bottom shelf, lay a crumpled stack of notebook papers. The paper came from a hand-bound notebook. Raya purchased it at a niche art store outside of Atlanta.

The words littering the pages weren’t written by Raya. They may have been in her handwriting, but she did not write them. Raya’s hand was ruled by a man who forced the pen between her fingers.

No, she did not write those words.

Raya tried re-reading the names and numbers on the pages. Each time she did, although it was only twice, a visceral tear away from real life shocked through her spine, tossing her back to a time when she couldn’t freely read.

There was always a set of eyes lurking over her shoulder, above her, beside her, behind her. Every move watched, every thought monitored and every word written on those pages stolen and transcribed with bad intention.

They met at a bar, aptly called “The Trap.” He introduced himself as Terrance. It was his real name.

In retrospect, such freedom of personal information seemed a mockery of what Terrance would eventually bring to Raya’s life. Terrance called her the morning after the universe misaligned. They were never supposed to meet, but the errors of entry were never caught in those first months of misstep.

Terrance fit all of the requirements. Nice teeth. A quiet mystique. He even had a little daughter. Within a few weeks, he was keeping half his clothes in a bag on her bedroom floor. She’d launder each item and, over time, slowly folded them on to the closet shelves.

“I manage multiple business…” he responded when asked what he did. No clear answer and never an explanation. It’s how he afforded that Mercedes. Her life was all neat and tidy - the antithesis of his. A concise, curated answer meant to tell just enough. It was always a truth though.

She had no reason to lie. He did.

8 am. No one in the home had a wink of sleep. They’d both been up all night transcribing personal data and creating new online accounts. A bank account here, an LLC there. The names, the addresses, the lives were purchased in a dark website data bank. Passwords created, passwords documented.

She’d never done this before. She was good at it and soon learned he must be too, because he didn’t manage a damn thing and could still afford that Mercedes.

It was all a scam.

His business was scamming others’ businesses.

“The money takes a while to process,” his gravelly voice whispered to her each time she asked about the status of John Doe’s business loan.

Or Jane Doe. Take your pick of any name they’d inputted from the list inked in to that paper.

Terrance always made sure she typed the data as scribed - each keystroke heavy under the eyes of a vulture. Raya never learned whether or not the loans had processed. Terrance was picked up by a few federal agents in a quiet undercover sting three months after she first transcribed words for him.

On the second to the bottom shelf, she hid their transgressions…the illegality of her every move.

It’s been a year to the date, and those papers keep screaming to be torched and set free. Each username and each password were methodically, sadistically written and available for her to use.

”I have too much to lose, plus…what if I need to reset my password?”

Reset your password. She knew the ramifications of that request would mean no access to the account (and those promised loans) or get caught up like him…’managing multiple businesses’.

She didn’t want to walk that path. Those passwords remained the same online as they did on paper.