When the plane landed at O’Hare Airport, the flight attendants asked the passengers to remain in their seats. Sitting eight rows back, Kyle watched as two men wearing standard-issue government suits—clearly FBI agents—boarded the plane and handed over a document to the pilot.

“Yep, that would be me,” Kyle said, grabbing his backpack from underneath the seat in front of him.

The elderly Hispanic man sitting next to him lowered his voice to a whisper. “Drugs?”

“Twitter,” Kyle whispered back.

He stood up, backpack in hand, and nodded at the FBI agents that had stopped at his row. “Morning, gentlemen.”

The younger agent held out his hand, all business. “Hand over the computer, Rhodes.”

“I guess we’re skipping the pleasantries,” Kyle said, handing over his backpack.

The older agent yanked Kyle’s arms behind his back and slapped handcuffs on him. As they read him his rights, Kyle caught a glimpse of what had to be fifty passengers taking photos of him with their camera phones, photos that would later be blasted all over the Internet.

And from that moment on, he ceased being Kyle Rhodes, the billionaire’s son, and became Kyle Rhodes, the Twitter Terrorist.

Probably not the best way to make a name for himself.

They brought him to the FBI’s offices downtown and left him in an interview room for two hours. He called his lawyers, who arrived posthaste and gravely laid out the charges the FBI planned to bring to the U.S. Attorney’s Office. A half hour after his lawyers left, he was transferred to Metropolitan Correctional Center for booking.

“You’ve got a visitor, Rhodes,” the guard said later that afternoon.

They led him to a holding cell, where he waited at a steel table while trying to get used to the sight of himself in an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs. When the door opened and his sister walked in, he smiled sheepishly.

“Jordo,” he said, his nickname for her since they were kids.

She hurried over and hugged him tightly, a somewhat awkward exercise with the handcuffs. Then she pulled back and thunked him on the forehead with the palm of her hand. “You idiot.”

Kyle rubbed his forehead. “Ouch. That’s right where the cactus got me.”

“What were you thinking?” she demanded.

Over the course of the next couple weeks, that was the question Kyle would be asked hundreds of times by friends, family, his lawyers, the press, and just about anyone who passed him in the street. He could say that it had something to do with pride, or his ego, or the fact that he’d always been somewhat hot-tempered when provoked. But in the end, it really came down to one thing.

“I just…made a mistake,” he told his sister honestly. He wasn’t the first man to overreact when he discovered his girl was cheating on him, nor would he be the last. Unfortunately, he’d simply been in the unique position to screw up on a global level.

“I told the lawyers that I’m going to plead guilty,” he said. No sense wasting the taxpayers’ money for a sham of a trial, or wasting his own money in extra legal fees. Especially since he didn’t have a defense.

“They’re saying on the news that you’ll probably go to prison.” Jordan’s voice cracked on the last word, and her lip trembled.

Hell, no. The last time Kyle had seen his sister cry was nine years ago after their mother’s death, and he’d be damned if he let her do that now. He pointed for emphasis. “You listen to me, Jordo, because this is the only time I’m going to say this. Mock me, make all the jokes you want, call me an idiot, but you will not shed a tear over this. Understood? Whatever happens, I will handle it.”

Jordan nodded and took a deep breath. “Okay.” She looked him over, taking in the orange jumpsuit and handcuffs. Then she cocked her head questioningly. “So how was Mexico?”

Kyle grinned and chucked her under the chin. “That’s better.” He turned to the subject he’d avoided thinking about since his arrest. “How’s Dad taking the news?”

Jordan threw him a familiar you-are-so-busted look. “Remember sophomore year, the night you climbed out the kitchen window to go to Jenny Garrett’s party?”

Kyle winced. Did he ever. He’d left the window open so that he would have easy access back in, and their dad had come downstairs to investigate after hearing a strange noise. He’d found Kyle missing and a raccoon eating Cocoa Puffs in the pantry. “That bad, huh?”

Jordan squeezed his shoulder. “I’d say about twenty times worse.”

Damn.

AFTER FINISHING his review of the evening news, Kyle made the mistake of checking his e-mail. His e-mail address at Rhodes Corporation had been accessible via the website, and though he no longer worked for the company—having turned in his resignation the day he’d been released on bond and thus sparing his father the awkwardness of having to fire him—the messages he received there were forwarded to his personal account.

Every day since he’d been released, he had received hundreds of messages: interview requests from the press, hate mail from some very angry people who seriously needed to take a break from Twitter (Hey @KyleRhodes—you SUCK, dickwad!!!!!), and oddly flirtatious overtures from random women who sounded a tad too interested in meeting an ex-con.

After checking to make sure there was nothing of actual importance he needed to respond to, Kyle deleted the entire lot of e-mails. He didn’t do interviews, the hate mail wasn’t worth answering, and although he may have been in prison for four months and thus in the midst of the longest period of celibacy of his adult life, he found it generally prudent to avoid having sex with crazy people.