Bird Man tilts his head. “Are you an actress or something?” he says in a way that makes me suddenly thankful for the packed room. “I’ve seen you before.”

It isn’t a question. It’s awkward, intrusive. I tuck my stringy, whiteish-blonde hair behind my ear and am about to excuse myself when I notice the books on his table: Lethal Violence in Chicago, True Stories of Chicago’s Most Brutal Murders.

I take a step back as I read the title of the one he’s holding: The Psychology Behind Mob Mentality.

Bird Man’s eyes gleam. “Human psychology,” he says, tapping the book in his hand. “A crazed mob destroys our inhibitions so quickly, making us all do things we wouldn’t otherwise do.” He leans forward. “Fascinating, isn’t it?”

My shoulders knot. Who is this guy? He doesn’t fit the Swarm profile, but I have a burning desire to put as much distance as I can between us.

He grabs his glasses from the table and draws out the act of putting them on. “I’ll figure out who you are.” He stares at me longer than he should before wagging his finger. “I always do.”

I sling my bag over my shoulder and flee Bird Man and his creepy fixations before tonight’s news features my abduction by a child predator.

Heading toward the sea of computers where patrons stare at their screens like lifeless fish, I realize that checking the IP addresses of all these computers is near impossible. And even if I found the exact computer that was used, what good would that do?

That’s when I look up and see the security cameras hanging from the ceiling. If I find the computer, Detective Irving can access the footage and cross check it with the tweet’s time stamp. Irving will have the image of the guy who announced the attack, and I can somehow salvage the disaster I’ve created.

Excitement flutters in the base of my stomach, and I squeeze my gut. No need to get ahead of myself. I scan the room for where to begin. One kid, maybe fifteen, sits a few computers down wearing sunglasses. He’s bigger—muscular—and wearing a hooded sweatshirt. I walk faster, making a beeline for him, half expecting to see the Twitter account open on his desktop with a tweet about the next attack. But when I pass his computer, he’s reading a site on Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. He’s filled an open notebook with notes and lines of poetry in handwriting neater than mine.

Focus, Finch. It’s not like I’ve uncovered the Swarm’s hideout. I need to be vigilant, not neurotic.

Scoping my surroundings, I continue past him toward the far side of the room where fewer patrons sit. A murderous tweet wouldn’t be sent from a screen as visible as these to anyone walking by.