I reach for the phone and call the only person who could be responsible. His phone goes straight to voice mail. I hang up without leaving a message, then call my bank.

Ten minutes later, my worst fears are confirmed. I am, in the eyes of my financial institution, broke. Every one of my accounts has been cleaned out, the funds wired from my accounts, using my passcodes. No, they cannot get the funds back. No, they don’t know or won’t disclose where the funds went. They did provide me with a day, yesterday, when I lost my savings. They did have a copy of the wire transfer, which they promised to e-mail over. They also mentioned, several times, that I have negative balances in two of my accounts, and asked how I would be taking care of those.

They are rude and unhelpful, the sugary-sweet tones of prior calls gone, replaced by a bitchiness of the you-owe-us-money variety. I hang up the phone and punch a hole through the thin Sheetrock of the nearest wall.

Money. It was so precious to me when I first moved here. When the deposit on this apartment was a struggle, and I had no clear idea of what to do for income. But I had stopped thinking about money over three years ago. I have forgotten what the panic feels like. It feels like shit.

I sit on the edge of the bed, my chest tight, forcing myself to breathe, to think. Foregoing the possibility that some random identity-theft individual out there hacked into my world and stole every dollar I had, Mike is the only one who could have done this. He has full, unfettered access to my life. My computer, my money, my identity. Part given by me, part taken or provided by him. There have been times when I have questioned the wisdom of such access. But I need him, need his connections and access, have needed the digital walls he can build to keep my identity safe. And I have always paid him well. For him to steal everything from me… it is unthinkable. I pause, halfway through the process of picking Sheetrock bits from my knuckles. It. Is. Unthinkable. Mike, damn my naïveté, wouldn’t have left me completely penniless. We are, in some twisted sense of the word, friends. He had to have left me something. I move quickly, at the keyboard in an instance, bringing up the website for my offshore bank, my fingers hesitating, unsure of the login credentials, and open my e-mail and look for the one Mike sent a few years ago with login instructions.

I can’t find it. I can’t, two hours later, after painstakingly reading every e-mail he has ever sent me, find any information on logging in. I know he sent it, I know I read it, have—once or twice—logged into the site. I know the accounts are there. I filled out and scanned in registration and account forms, wire authorizations. I’ve spoken to the bank four or five times in the last year. There should be a million and a half, maybe two, in that bank. I glance at my watch, the hour too late to get anyone on the phone. I breathe deeply, send false reassurances to the part of my brain dumb enough to believe me. The offshore money will be there. A million and a half is more than enough. I will be fine. The money will be there. I’ll call them in the morning and, within minutes, they will confirm that fact. I will change my PINs and protect the money. The money will be there.

My computer dings, the alert of an incoming e-mail. I open it quickly, my bank the sender, the one-page attachment containing lines of numbers that tell me nothing, only one thing capturing my eyes. The memo line. Repeated four times, one for each of my money market accounts, one for my checking account. The same word, all caps in each instance. RUN.

I stare at the words, my brain dull, no clear explanation coming to mind, my forehead scrunching when I frown. Read the words again. They now stand out from the page, are in look-at-only-me font, nothing else legible but those words.

RUN.

RUN.

RUN.

RUN.

What the fuck is going on?

Where the fuck would I run to?

And who the fuck am I running from?

I close the attachment and move a shaky hand to my cell, wanting to take care of my most urgent need before my brain runs itself straight to crazy town. I enter the number for Cams.com and press “Send.”

Cams.com never closes. Their 24-7 line is answered promptly and they are, apparently, used to demands for money. I currently have $24,194 in my payout account, a pay period not yet complete, and am not scheduled for an ACH deposit until next Thursday. But, according to the cheery-voiced customer service rep, they can deposit it in my bank account early tomorrow morning, for a minimal service fee of 50 percent. Fifty fucking percent. In very colorful language I tell him to process the payment. I hang up and hope to God Mike is done emptying these accounts. Done sending me cryptic messages without explanation.

RUN.

He’s not a dramatic guy. Not someone I’ve pissed off recently or who is in the habit of playing elaborate jokes. I have to assume that he has either skipped town with my money or that something is very wrong. And if something is very wrong, what do my funds have to do with him? With his memo alert? Are the funds a tool of communication or a piece of the puzzle?