Mrs. Wei calls me out on my fib. “Ha. Good one.”
She opens the door, leads me down the metal staircase, and brings us to the next metal door. Another man, Ren, stands there with a Bluetooth piece in his ear. If we weren’t where we are, I’d assume he was Secret Service or something.
“You know the drill, Abaddon,” Ren directs at me with a nod of his head.
Sighing, I hand over my bag, which he searches thoroughly and swiftly. Then he sets my satchel on the group and produces a handheld metal detector. I hand over my cell phone and raise my arms to my sides. After a clear scan, Ren places my phone in a black Faraday bag and finally lets me pass.
“Welcome to The Circuit, Abaddon.”
At The Circuit, there are only a few rules. No cell phones, no GPS, and no real names.
Snagging my bag, I enter the dark room and leave behind Mrs. Wei and Ren.
The low ceilings and cramped desks used to make me feel claustrophobic, but now it settles the itch inside. The furniture and electronics are all mismatched and dated, but the servers are top-of-the-line.
Sitting at my usual station, I set my coffee thermos on the small coaster next to the keyboard and connect my laptop.
“You made it.”
My shoulders bunch minutely as I don’t give a verbal response. I don’t come here to be social. I prefer to work in peace, do what I came to do, and leave. But some people still try to take the time to make conversation.
“How’s it going?” Slicer leans against my desk right next to me, making it almost impossible to ignore him.
Slicer is a nice guy who isn’t afraid to be expressive with his facial features. I don’t normally have problems with him. But he likes to talk, and that’s a problem.
“Fine,” I respond curtly.
In my peripheral vision, I see Slicer glance at me sheepishly. “I’ve been listening to that podcast I told you about,Coffee, Donuts & Crime.”
My response is lackluster. “Mm.”
He continues to babble as if my reply was as enthusiastic as a peppy cheerleader with pom poms and everything. “Last week’s episode was about the Ripper of Albany. This week, they talked about a new serial killer that people are calling the Avenging Angel.”
The beating of my heart stops, and my stomach drops about a million miles to the center of the earth. My hand pauses for half a second, hovering over my mouse.
Slicer gets more energetic as he relays what he heard. “Police don’t have any clues, and anyone they interview who might have witnessed something says they didn’t see anything.”
That’s some news.
Even though I’m not acknowledging him, Slicer keeps speaking, undeterred. “No one is sure what the victims have in common. The podcasters said they think the police aren’t sharing everything they know.”
No duh. No respectable investigator would.
“I have a theory."
He finally gets my attention, but I still don’t look at him as I type meaningless code. “Oh?”
Slicer lowers his voice like he’s telling me a secret. “I think the killer is just some crazy person. He’s probably just a guy whose mom didn’t hold him enough when he was a child.”
And I’m back to disengaging.
He stands there only for a few more moments before he says something in parting and walks away, finally allowing me to get down to what I came here to do.
Scanning databases and engaging in chat rooms, I delve into the darker side of the internet, the realm where no one is safe. But I have to do this.
An hour later, I hit the jackpot, print my findings, and log out of my station. In that time, a few more people have arrived and are typing away at their own stations.
I retrieve my phone from Ren and make my way back to the subway to catch the train to Midtown for my shift as a barista at Mocha Lisa.
