It doesn’t exist. I type in #13, wondering if I somehow screwed up the username. But the tweet’s been removed as if it never existed. There has to be a way to retrieve it. A stored cache on my computer or Adam’s computer. All I need is an image of it with that stupid time stamp. Why didn’t I print it?

But when I look around for the camera Detective Irving would access to cross-check the time stamp from the tweet, I can’t find one aimed at these computers. I spin in my chair, craning my neck, possibility sinking with every passing second. That’s why these computers were used. Whoever sent that tweet knew exactly what they were doing. I want to cling to the hope that they used their library card to sign in. But my instinct that it would be another futile pursuit is too strong.

I smack my palms against the keyboard. This can’t be it. There has to be something I’m missing.

My cell phone chimes in my bag.

Behind me, there’s cackling. I snap toward it and catch the couple who was making out earlier running through the shelves in a flirtatious game of chase. The girl’s hair, streaked with purple and dotted with metal barrettes, swings back and forth as she dodges her boyfriend. I roll my eyes as my cell chimes two more times.

I’m not ready to admit my failure on both leads to Adam or whoever is calling. To acknowledge that Jeremiah Dopney is fighting for his life and I have nothing to show for it.

“Give me a freakin’ second.” I grab my phone out of my bag and am surprised to see three texts from a blocked number:

GET OUT

NOW!!!!!

STAIRS TO YOUR RIGHT—RUN!!

I spin, searching for the threat or person texting me. But no one looks out of place. No one’s paying attention to me.

I snatch my bag and fling it around my torso.

I scramble for my scarf as I half run, half walk toward the exit sign. My chest tightening, restricting my lungs, I twist the scarf around my neck and chin.

Just as I get to the door, I freeze.

It’s a trap.

Someone wants me in the stairwell so I’m alone. So he can kill me. Throw my body down the stairs. Watch it ricochet off the railings three stories down.

I turn away from the exit only to slam into someone’s chest. It’s hard and muscular. He reaches around me, yanks open the door, and shoves me into the stairwell.

Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

I stumble, fighting to keep upright as I’m thrown into the stairwell. I grab the rail, catapult myself down the stairs, and take off sprinting.

He follows me. His steps hammer the cement. They ricochet around the concrete walls—drowning my thoughts, my ability to think.