I stop at the first open desktop. Signing in with my library card, I navigate the system preferences to find the internal IP address. I pull my sleeve up and compare it to the numbers on my wrist. No match.

I inch along the row, trying four more computers, and fail. Just as I’m about to hit the fifth, giggling snaps my attention away. Two people are making out at the far end of the aisle I’m standing near. They have their tongues shoved so far down each other’s throats, it looks like they might choke each other.

That’s when I spot a set of ten computers tucked between rows of books, far removed from the rest of the room. If someone wanted to conduct nefarious activity on the third floor at the Harold Washington Library, these would be the computers to use.

I cut down the aisle and make my way to the island of desktops. The cubbies are empty, except for a faded Loyola sweatshirt folded over a chair and a green notebook resting on the keyboard.

Starting with the computer in the corner, I tap the space bar, enter my library card, and check the IP address. I move down the line—no match after no match—until I’m down to the final two. I shake the mouse, waking the ninth screen in front of the spiral notebook and hoodie. Someone’s signed in, with only six minutes left of their hour block.

I search for the user. No one’s lurking. This area, for the most part, is undisturbed.

Sitting down at the tenth desktop, I check its IP—another no match. I glance back at computer number nine. Six minutes is easy to waste. Booting up the Internet on the screen in front of me, I check my email—twenty-three spam messages and one from Emi Vega. I’m irritated before I even open it.

Hi, Lia! she begins, sounding like a high school student instead of a thirty-something professional.

I would love to sit down and chat with you.

I delete it, unable to read any more. She’s not getting an exclusive.

I scan the room for anyone paying too close attention to me. No one’s watching. No one’s sneaking up behind me. I’m ignored. And other than the sweatshirt and the notebook, I’m alone.

I search yesterday’s attack. The reporters at school mentioned CPD bringing someone in for questioning, like I should know about it. But I had no idea who it was.

The top story reads “Are Latin Royals Behind the Death Mob? Gang Leader Rafael Nuñez Brought in for Questioning.” It includes his picture, a mug shot, likely from a previous arrest.