Clicking on the link, I skim the article. The more I read, the more cynical I become. According to the article, Nuñez was brought in for his alleged involvement in Dopney’s assault after claims that dozens of Spanish-speaking, dark-skinned teenagers dominated the tip of Navy Pier just before the attack. Which is a lie. I don’t remember anyone Latino when the attack broke out. Certainly not dozens. Even with their faces covered, enough skin was exposed for me to know the Swarm was diverse—white, black, brown. The city’s always been quick to implicate gang activity, but they’ve never been specific about any one gang. They’ve never taken it this far.

I fall against the back of my chair. It’s a diversion. They’re pushing their only theory, that gangs are behind the attacks. And for whatever reason, they’re going after the Latin Royals. It feels like an attempt to thwart the investigation. But why? Why take it to this new level?

“I figured it out,” someone whispers in my ear. A bony hand slides over my shoulder.

I jerk around to find Bird Man peering at my computer screen.

“I should have known. You’re quite famous.”

I can’t breathe, or swallow. I can’t put enough space between me and his talonlike claws.

“Don’t worry.” Bird Man leans down and picks up the sweatshirt and the notebook. He tucks them underneath his arm. “Your secrets are safe with me.” He stares at my face, which I’m sure is pale and clammy and desperate. I scoot closer to the wall. My shoulder prickles where he touched me. Like spiders crawling on my skin.

Bird Man makes an attempt at winking and walks off—back to his books on murder. I swear the air grows colder as he leaves with—was it his notebook and sweatshirt? Or was he simply collecting them as an excuse to taunt me?

I stare at the empty chair next to me, like it holds answers, before sliding into it and entering my library card number. A jittery rush races through me as I look up the IP address of the desktop Bird Man was using. I know before I read the numbers it’s going to be a match.

And it is.

I throw my hair into a ponytail with the rubber band around my wrist and access Twitter. In the early 2000s, when flash mobs shifted from innocent dances to teens looting stores and mugging tourists, Twitter was used to communicate. Whoever organized this last attack must have known that. I guarantee he thought his little nostalgic shout-out was clever.

But I’m clever too. As I try to type ZX_81412JT, my fingers shake. They slip on the keys, taking me three times before I get it right. When I do, the tweet is gone.