“I’m sure you’re right,” she exclaimed, waving to our waiter. But I didn’t believe her. There was clearly more, a lot more.
For the next hour, our conversation drifted into the familiar territories of home and family and the never-ending challenges of motherhood. Most of the back-and forth was a rehearsed banter, Katie’s way of leaving behind her worries for a few minutes. But it was what she wasn’t saying that kept me bothered. And while I remained skeptical and disbelieving of her suspicion, I had to admit to being intrigued by the idea of Jerry being so deceptive. If what Katie was saying were true, then how long had the affair been going on? How many lies had Jerry told? Just the thought of someone else in our small circle having secrets intrigued me. I wanted to know more. I wanted to learn.
Images of our home computer crept into my mind—as did my first failed attempts at spinning up a secret life. With this last thought, I stabbed a glance at my phone to check the time. I had at least another three hours.
What could I do with the afternoon? Buy a new computer. A laptop that I could secretly keep to myself. I’ll have to get cash from the bank or put it on a credit card.
My head began to spin again as I traced how every transaction showed up on our monthly bills. We shared that chore, switching off month to month, taking turns.
Was it my turn to pay the bills and balance the checkbook this month? If not, how much could I get away with spending?
Steve sometimes checked my work when it was his turn anyway, I knew.
“Can I wrap that up for you to go, ma’am?” our waiter asked. I hated being called ma’am. My mother was a ma’am, and she wasn’t exactly one of my favorite people. I felt fit and sexy—did I look like a ma’am? I certainly didn’t feel like one. The waiter leaned forward and repeated, “Ma’am?” I cringed at the sound.
“No, no, that’s fine. I’m done,” I answered primly, keeping my lips straight and tight, as if something had been wrong with his service. But then I saw his shoes—tattered, torn, and barely holding together. That pair of black walking shoes were probably older than anything I owned—except for maybe our home computer. I bit my lip, feeling the twinge of guilt. He was just doing his job and trying to be polite. It wasn’t his fault I was self-conscious. I offered a smile to thank him. And as I did, my eyes fell on my next destination.
Just down the street from Romeo’s Café, I saw the public library. I couldn’t remember the last time I had visited the library—might have been for a school project with Michael, who had done a report on the Dewey decimal system. But I remembered seeing computers and I remembered they had access to the Internet. Its open hours would align perfectly with my schedule and when Steve’s mother usually watched Snacks.
Feeling happy with my plan of where to go after lunch, I made sure to add a little extra to the tip, hoping our waiter would use the money to buy himself some new shoes.
EIGHT
THE LIBRARY SMELLED of old books and furniture polish. I wrinkled my nose, recalling its strong odors from growing up. I couldn’t help but wonder briefly if I should do the same at home? I dusted, and Steve helped now and again on rainy Saturdays when the weather gave back the hours. But I’d thought the days of spraying furniture polish and wiping everything down had gone the way of the aluminum ice tray and hot-air popcorn makers.
A long counter with all the amenities stood to the right side of the entrance where a mousy-looking librarian with a nose too close to her eyes greeted me. I almost laughed when I first looked at her. There was no doubt she was the librarian. If there was ever a stereotypical picture of a librarian, it was this woman. She wore a cornflower-blue, ruffled blouse with a dark blue V-neck vest. Her hair, brushed gray by age, had been pulled back into a tight bun. It sat atop her head like a big round button. But what did it for me were her thick, squarish reading glasses perched at the end of her nose and the chains running under her ears and around her neck. She stared over the frame of her glasses with a pert smile and greeted me. I smiled back, noticing that she wore no jewelry—not even a wedding band. I wondered if there was some kind of librarian’s code.
“May I help you?” she asked in a voice that sounded as old and dusty as the books on the shelves.
“Yes, thank you,” I quickly answered, feeling as if I were back in high school, researching a term paper. “I’d like to use a computer?”
The librarian jutted her chin up and glanced over her shoulder. I turned in the direction she indicated to find two rows of tables, both filled with various types of computers, and all of them looking newer than the one in our home.
“No books today?” she asked. I shook my head. The librarian mumbled something under her breath about how nobody visited to check out books anymore. I supposed she was right. Sad. I couldn’t remember the last time I actually checked out a book.
As I stepped to pass the old woman, she reached out with her palm open. She expected something from me. I stopped, confused.
“If you want to use one of the library computers, then I’ll need to hold your library card,” she instructed. My throat closed, and I stepped back. The whole reason for visiting the library was to research and leave no traces of who I was. I’d never considered needing a library card.
“I forgot it,” I quickly answered, trying to garner sympathy. “And I really need to use the computer today. I’m out of work and looking for a job.”
Did that sound pathetic enough?
“I see,” the librarian answered, but she looked suspicious. She was sizing up my outfit. “A driver’s license will do. I just need to hold it until you’re done.”
Oh my God. Seriously?
My nerves were rattled now. A sudden sweat was making my scalp itch. The irony was that I knew when faced with committing murder, I wouldn’t feel anxious or nervous at all.
“Yes. Yes, certainly.” I dove into my purse, making a show of pushing everything back and forth and shooting up a flustered glance or two. My wallet was right there in my hand, but I wasn’t about to turn over my license. I kept my hands hidden in my purse another minute until I saw the librarian’s patience wear thin. She shifted, annoyed and uncomfortable. She bounced her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. After another minute, she finally waved her hand to let me pass. It was good to know some of my old tricks from high school still worked.
“Oh, go ahead,” she instructed, her voice sounding resigned and tired. “Nobody reads books anymore, nobody uses their cards. What does it matter? And listen, dear. You just hang in there. I do hope you have luck in finding a new job.”
“I appreciate that. Thank you,” I answered and rushed past her before another word could be said.
As I made my way to the computer tables, a young man caught my eye. He smiled, having watched the exchange with the librarian. He winked. Or I thought he winked. I got the sudden feeling he knew I was lying to the mousy woman.
From the look of him, I would have expected him to be in school. If he were ditching class, he’d picked an odd place to spend his time. I gave him a glance but didn’t return a smile. He was all nerd. Knotty curls of black hair that hadn’t been cut or combed in a while, a yellow-and-white striped shirt with sleeves that were too short for the time of year. The only thing missing were glasses and a pocket protector. I didn’t like the way he looked at me, so I stared back, narrowing my eyes. Another trick from high school. I kept my stare on him until it made him uncomfortable enough to turn away. Soon he disappeared behind the computer. As I passed behind him, he dared a glance over his shoulder. I could tell that he was staring at my ass; a girl can always tell. It was an innocent reaction, and I didn’t mind, preferring that he only saw that side of me, anyway.
The computers weren’t just newer than the one at home, they were completely different. While our boxy tank was loud and ran an old version of Windows, the computer in front of me was a newer Apple—I’d seen these only on television commercials. It had crisp, elegant lines, and it was thin. A large black screen like onyx
filled the space in front of me. I felt even more intimidated than I had with our home computer. I touched the mouse, hesitating. Without a sound, other than a melodic chime, the display lit up immediately with brilliant colors. My first thought was that Steve would love one of these. My second thought was that I had no idea how to use a Mac.
Where was the browser? How do you print? Should I print? And what about my secret box, the hidden folder I needed?
“Windows person, huh?” I heard the nerd ask. I realized then I must have been staring at the computer for a while, doing nothing, thinking everything. “Do you need access to the Internet?”
“I do,” I answered cautiously. “I’m not a Mac person. But not by choice. We only have an old Windows machine.” I wanted to avoid eye contact, so I kept my gaze to the table between us.
“Macs usually come with the Safari browser, but the library has been good enough to install Firefox and Chrome.”
“Firefox? I know Firefox. It’s what I use at home,” I exclaimed, thinking all wasn’t lost. I looked up again, searching for the familiar foxtail icon.
“They should really put it on the desktop, but they never do.” The nerd moved his seat closer to mine. I made room for him. He seemed harmless. When he was next to me, I took a closer look at him and thought he could either have been in college or just out of high school. He was a cute boy, but if he was ever going to catch the eyes of a girl, he’d desperately need a makeover. “May I?”
“Sure. Yes, thank you.” For a nerd, the boy was more sociable, even likable than the geeks I’d grown up with.
He leaned in and tapped a few keys, bringing up the familiar Firefox interface I knew. “There you go. And I put a shortcut on the desktop too.”
“Excellent. And I use it just like I do at home?”
“Sure thing. The Internet doesn’t care about which browser you use. Just don’t search for anything illegal,” he laughed. At once, I took my hands off the keyboard as if the keys were on fire. My reaction gave him pause, and he stopped laughing, intrigued. “Oh. If that’s your business, then you’ll want to use a different browser altogether.”
Five minutes into my first research session and I’d already shown my hand, already drawn suspicion. A part of me wanted to scream, to grab my things, and to run from the library.
“You know a lot about computers?” I asked. I smiled, and in a half-joking tone, added, “So you know how to search for things? I mean, how to search for things, safely?”
“You a cop?” he asked abruptly, not returning a smile. His face had gone blank, aging him a few years. “You know you have to tell me if I ask you to identify yourself.”
Was I in luck? Was he also seeking the same anonymity? “I think that only works in movies. And no, I’m not a cop.”
“You’re not really looking for a job, are you?” he asked, motioning to the librarian.
“Nope. Not looking for a job. Just need to use a computer,” I answered, and wanted to be careful about what I said. I mean, who just meets someone in a public library and then strikes up a conversation like this. Privacy, I thought. I’ll mention privacy. “And since this is a public library, and these are public computers, I’d like my work to remain private. That’s all.”
“Well, then,” he said and pointed toward the computer. “Privacy is a good thing. And I won’t tell them you’re not looking for work if you won’t tell them what I’m doing.”
I had no idea what he was doing on his computer, but I agreed, answering, “Deal.” I extended my hand. “Call me . . . Amelia.”
“Like the pilot,” he said, nodding. “That way you can just disappear without a trace.”
“Yeah. Something like that.” It was a coincidence I’d picked that name, but I liked what he said. And more than that, I liked the way he thought.
“Call me—”
“Nerd,” I answered for him. His brow narrowed, stitching together as he considered the name. Soon, a dimple appeared on his cheek.
“Sure. Nerd,” he agreed. “Why not? That’s a safe name. So you are here to do some research, and in need of privacy? But more important, you don’t want to do it at home?”
“Uh-huh,” I answered. And then repeated, “I want privacy.”
“Not sure if you know, but every browser already offers a way to turn on privacy,” he said, clicking the browser’s menu, showing me the options for a private window. “There are other browsers too that are even better, like hide your location. But is it only privacy? Or do you need to do deeper research?”
“Deeper?” I asked, hearing his emphasis on the word, but unsure of what he meant.
“How much do you know about the Internet?” he asked as he flashed through a half-dozen screens.
“Same as most, I suppose.”
“I mean, how do you normally use the web?”
“Well, I shop online and I check the—”
“Weather,” he interrupted. “You’re surfing high.”
“Excuse me?” I said abruptly, uncertain of where the conversation was leading.
“You’ve only scratched the surface,” he continued as more web pages flashed across the screen. “You’re surfing in the top five percent, along with everyone else.”
“So what is in the other ninety-five percent?” I asked, having heard about the darker areas of the Internet from Steve. But that didn’t mean I knew how to access them. Nerd’s eyes opened wide in excitement.
“Well, Amelia, let me tell you. Wait, I’ll show you,” he began and then opened a new browser I didn’t recognize. “That is the Deep Web. And I think that is where you’ll find whatever it is you’re looking for. It’s where most of us do our research. That is, when we want privacy.”
“How do you know what I’m looking for?” I asked. An uneasy, urgent feeling came.
“Relax,” he answered, reading my reaction. “Because that is why I am here. There’s not much to gain browsing the crust, unless your partial to Wikipedia pages.”
“You spend your day in the library, surfing the Deep Web?” I asked.
“Maybe not quite like that,” he laughed. “The library is quiet and safe. I write code for anyone willing to pay. And it just so happens that the best-paying customers advertise their jobs on the dark net.” He glanced around, adding, “It’s also an easy place to pick up tutoring jobs.”
I held my purse tight, suddenly intent on leaving. I didn’t know what to make of Nerd and considered that he could just be showing off. It also seemed an odd sense of luck too—my meeting him, meeting someone with his level of knowledge about the deep web. But isn’t that the case with success? Call it luck or good fortune, but mostly it’s just opportunity and timing crossing paths. I threw caution into the wind and decided to play out the conversation until I’d heard enough and learned what was needed to work on my own.
“You never answered my question. What am I looking for?”
“My guess . . .” he started to say, sizing me up and down. “You’ve got a little something-something on the side and want to keep it that way. Only, your husband is a bit too tech savvy for you to risk doing anything at home. Am I right?” His face lit up as though he’d guessed it on the first try.
“Murder,” I corrected him, shaking my head. My voice sounded icy. It sounded exactly the way I’d hoped it would. I was throwing everything into the wind now and wanted to gauge his reaction. But he didn’t pack up and run like I’d expected. Instead, he shrugged seemed to lose interest.
“Really?” he answered. I sensed he believed I was lying, that I was being sarcastic. And that was fine. “I’ll take that as code for you’re researching a new book?”
“Something like that,” I answered. “Privacy is best. And that’s all I want to say for now.” Nerd nodded his head slowly, uncertain if I was being serious.
Sarcastic intent or not, had I said too much?
For all he knew, I could be trying to call his bluff.
“Not a problem. And if you’re game, I can show y
ou a few things to help you with your research,” he answered.
“So what makes the Deep Web . . . deep?” I asked, trying to tap my immediate need and move past the current topic. “I mean, why isn’t it all just one Web?”
He mulled over my question a moment and then answered with a question. “What’s the first thing you do on a computer?” he asked, moving back to the keyboard. A browser window opened, showing a familiar search box.
“I search,” I answered.
“Everybody searches,” he continued for me. “To make searching possible, some computer, some server has a list of all the other servers, and those servers have lists too, and each of them has notes about the other so they’re easy to find.”
“That’s how the links come up in the results?” I added, questioning.
“Right. It works because of all the indexing. However, for the servers that are in the Deep Web, they aren’t indexed. Actually, they are never indexed. They’re there, but you have to know how to access them. And that’s what I know how to do.”
He brought up window upon window—all of them completely alien to me. I understood some of what he explained, but felt we’d only scratched the surface.
How vast was the Deep Web? How far would I have to go to find what I needed?
“Deep Web must be huge. An ocean.”
Nerd responded with a curt nod. “You might say that. Just about every illegal activity you can think of can be found there.”
“Show me,” I demanded. Nerd abruptly raised his hands from the keyboard. I felt a sudden disappointed, and confused, like I’d just been stood up.
“That kind of knowledge doesn’t come cheap,” he said, lowering one hand, palm facing up. I raised my brow, surprised, and a bit frustrated. But I respected how he treated this as a transaction and recalled his mentioning being a tutor. “Coding has been light and I’ve got to make a living. Tutoring on the side is a good filler. I’m game to all topics, including deep web navigation.”
Affair with Murder The Complete Box Set Page 5
