Killing Katie (An Affair With Murder) (Volume 1)

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Killing Katie (An Affair With Murder) (Volume 1) Page 5

by B. A. Spangler


  “You’re probably right,” she quickly answered, pressing her lips together until they went white. She gingerly brushed the dampness from her cheeks and picked up the menu. “Ready to order?”

  “Katie,” I objected. “Wait. What else is going on?” She shook her head and put on a terrible lie of a smile.

  “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 turned me on. 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 with 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 be doing 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 one would expect at a library 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 corn-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 of them filled with various types of computers, and all of them looking newer than our home computer.

  “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. Clearly 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 up and I stepped back. The whole reason for visiting the library was to do research without leaving any traces of who I was. I’d never considered needing a library card.

  “I forgot it,” I quickly answered, trying to garner a little 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.

  Why was that? Maybe because I would be the one in control?

  “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 that 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 that he knew I was lying to the mousy old 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 decided to stare 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 that I needed?

  “Windows person, huh?” I heard the nerd ask. I realized then that I must have been staring at the computer for a while, doing nothing, thinking everything. “Need the Internet?”

  “I do,” I answered cautiously. “I don’t know how to use this.” I wanted to avoid eye contact, so I kept my gaze to the table between us.

  “Macs usually come with Safari, but the library has been good enough to install Firefox and Chrome.”

  “I know Firefox. It’s what I use at home,” I exclaimed, thinking that 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 moved over to make room. He seemed harmless. When he was next to me, I took a closer look at him and thought that 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.

  The boy leaned in and tapped a few keys, bringing up the familiar Firefox interface that I knew. “There you go. 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. He stopped laughing and lifted his chin, intrigued by my reaction. “In that case, 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 as if my hair were on fire.

  “You know a lot about computers?” I asked, trying to settle the nervous shake in my voice. “You know how to search for things? Safely search for things?”

  “You a cop?” he asked abruptly. His face went blank, aging him ten years. “You know that you have to tell me if I ask you to identify yourself.”

  My desperation swung to a sense of relief. I was in luck. Nerd was at the library, seeking out 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.”

  “Well, then,” he began to say and motioned to the computer. “I won’t tell if you won’t tell.”

  “Deal,” I answered, extending 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 that I’d picked that particular 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 that you can’t do at home?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How much do you know about the Internet?” he asked as he flashed through a half-dozen screens on my computer.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, how do you normally use the web?”

  “Well, I shop and 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 are surfing in the top five percent, along with everyone else.”

  “So what is in the other ninety-five percent?” I asked, having heard a little about the darker areas of the Internet from Steve. But that certainly 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. “That is the Deep Web. And I think that is where you’ll find what it is you’re looking for.”

  “How do you know what I’m looking for?” I asked, leaning back and cautiously gripping my purse. An uneasy, urgent feeling came to me.

  “Relax,” he answered, reading my reaction. “Because that is why I am here. The Deep Web is where I do my work.”

  “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.”

  I held my purse tight, suddenly intent on leaving. I didn’t know what to make of Nerd. Maybe he was just showing off, or maybe he thought that he could trade favors with me behind one of the bookshelves.

  “You never answered my question. What am I looking for?”

  “My guess . . .” he started to say, sizing me up and down. “You’ve got something on the side and want to keep it that way, only your husband is a bit too tech savvy to risk doing anything at home. Am I right?” His face lit up as though he’d guessed the right answer 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 wanted to gauge his reaction. But he didn’t pack up and run like I’d expected. Instead, he shrugged.

  “Really?” he answered. “Doing research for a book? Or are you talking about the real thing?”

  “Research,” I confessed. “That’s all I want to say for now.” Nerd nodded his head slowly.

  Had I offered too much?

  For all he knew, I could be trying to call his bluff.

  “That’s fine. I can show you 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 one Web?”

  “What’s the first thing you do on a computer?” he asked, moving back to the keyboard and tapping. 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 somewhere, some server is looking at all the other connected servers, taking down notes about them.”

  “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. They’re out there, but you have to know how to access them. And that is what I know how to do.”

  He brought up window upon window—all of them completely alien to me. I understood a little 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.”

  “Show me,” I demanded. Nerd abruptly raised his hands from the keyboard. I felt a sudden disappointed and a little 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, fixing a look of frustration on my face, but respected how he treated this as a transaction. “Coding has been light and I’ve got to make a living.”

  “And you’ll show me?” I asked. The last thing I expected when entering the library this afternoon was that I’d be taking a computer lesson.

  “As much as you need.”

  Without another thought, I dug into my purse, producing a fifty-dollar bill that I’d put aside for Michael’s birthday card. The bill was fresh and crisp and smelled like ink. “Just printed,” the teller at the bank had said when placing it beneath the thick safety glass and sliding it forward. I hesitated a moment, wanting to make sure that I was doing what I wanted to do, and then placed it in Nerd’s hands. I cringed when he crumpled it into a ball and stuffed it away in his pocket.

  “What’s first?”

  NINE

  WHEN THE SUN had dipped low enough to reach through the library’s window, I knew that I’d overstayed my time. At best there was twenty minutes of sunlight remaining in the day. I was never late. Never.

  “Damn!” I blurted. “What time is it?” I didn’t bother waiting for an answer. The clock on the wall peered at me as if I’d broken a vow. I focused, but I couldn’t find the hour hand, and for a moment I thought the clock must have stopped. But both of the clock hands were pointing straight down, as if indicating where my heart should be. My mouth dropped. I jumped up from the table and gathered my things in a rush. I could feel Nerd staring, curious at my reaction.

  Oh to be young and free, I thought with a sentimental recall. There was just no knowing what you have until it is gone forever.

 

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