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“It’s worth a shot. Hopefully we’re dealing with an idiot trolling Reddit pages and not someone who knows what he’s doing.”

The wine I downed sends me off-balance. Telling my sisters I’ll see them in the morning, I shuffle up the stairs. Sleep won’t come tonight, but I don’t have the energy to talk anymore.

Throwing myself on the bed, I replay every one of my displays over the past two weeks. Everything has gone according to plan. No weird close calls. No cars following me. Clearly, I’ve missed something though. If the person made those changes to my display after I finished, they had to have been following me. They were there. Watching me. I didn’t even know. If that’s the case, I know where they’re going to be. Litza will kill me for this, but I know exactly what I need to do.

Pulling out my laptop, I open the router Litza has me use to get on the dark web and dive into the chat rooms where the world’s most vile human beings frequent. I open my ‘Pedophile’s Paradise’ bookmark, and the message board appears on the screen. It’s basically just a collection of old men, whose dicks only work if they’re breaking and stealing the innocence of youth.

Litza set up a profile for me a while back. My own little hunting ground. All from the comfort of my bedroom. I’ll admit it does take some of the fun out of it. They practically crawl to me begging for my attention. These men come into this shadowy space expecting to prey on the weak. They have no idea a bigger, meaner predator is waiting for them. Opening my ongoing chats, I see exactly who I’m looking for—Johnathan Rodderick.

A fifty-six-year-old man with an affinity for pigtails and parochial skirts. Holding down the bile rising in my throat, I send a quick message to start the conversation.

Having to interact and play into the sick fantasies of these sick fucks makes my skin crawl. Unfortunately, it’s a necessary evil.

I slam my laptop closed and rest my head on my pillow, focusing on what needs to happen next.

5

Getting up from my not so restful slumber, I pad to the kitchen. Sitting at the table is Litza, thoroughly engrossed in something requiring three laptops and a blender jar with green frothy liquid. Even from a distance, I can see the sad maimed pieces of what used to be spinach clinging to the sides of the jar for dear life. A shiver runs down my spine as I make my way to the coffeepot.

“I’m just going to assume you didn’t sleep.” I reach for the coffee, which has miraculously been prepared. The glorious sweet, bitter scent hits my nose. I feel revived already.

“No, actually. I didn’t. Whoever this is…is good. Real good. After looking at the⁠—”

Already realizing she’s about to go through a bunch of technical lingo I neither care about, nor need to know, I cut her off.

“Litza, it’s too early for technical jargon. Give it to me straight.”

“You’re a real bitch in the morning.” Her painted gold nails flicker as she brings the straw to her lips. My eyes trail the green ooze as it crawls up the straw. The sip she takes is excruciatingly slow but the ooze reaches her lips. Forcing back a gag, I take a seat across from her.

“I don’t think I can get any information from this. I can’t find a crumb.” She slides the phone across the table to me.

“Seriously?” My eyes widen in surprise.

Pursing her lips, she nods.

“Yeah, I’m going to try and get more…I just need a little more time.” She rubs the tension from her forehead.

Judging by the dark circles under her eyes, I’m not the only one who missed out on sleep.

“All right. Do you need my phone? I can get one of the burners for now if you do.”

“No, I mirrored everything onto my computer.” She shrugs and relaxes back into the chair.

“Were you able to find out anything else?”

“On the person texting? No. But I got some information on that guy who has been sniping you at auctions.” She runs her fingers across the keyboard. Walking around to look over her shoulder, I watch she opens a file and runs through various screens of information.

Ethan Passmore. Age 36. Attended the University of Maryland on an athletic scholarship. I snort. Of course, he’d be a jock.

Owns a finance company. Hobbyist art collector. Not a professional curator. Owns a house in the River District. Family charity organization?

“He’s running some kind of security system, but I’ll get more information on that for you.” I shouldn’t be shocked that she knows that, but somehow, I am. Looking down at her mildly disheveled state, I smile.

“How in the world did you find all this in just a few hours?”

Her eyebrow quirks up with a chuckle.

“Have you ever been on those stupid class reunion pages where everyone talks shit and spreads each other’s business? This guy was in multiple posts. I don’t think he was very popular.”