"What the hell?" I demanded, pulling the computer closer so I could get a better look at the photograph.
"Right? Do you think this could be our guy?"
"Or girl," I protested.
"I don't think this is the time for feminism, Evelyn," Marx said, all business.
I pouted. "There's always time for feminism."
Marx smiled and shook his head in disbelief as he shut his computer down. "What should we do about this?"
"You're the FBI agent," I protested. I admit, I was being childish.
"But I'm asking you," Marx said, frowning.
I rolled my eyes. "Fine. We should figure out who this person - ," I emphasized person because of our earlier argument. " - is, where they live, and then go ask them a few questions. Happy?"
"Very. I was thinking the same thing," Marx said, placing his Coke on the glass coffee table and pulling his laptop back toward him. He began typing things into the computer as I snatched his drink from the table and took a swig.
"What are you doing?" I demanded, scooting closer to him so I could see the screen. He was opening several different files on his computer and typing in the passwords to access them.
"The government keeps tabs on everything that you enter your email for. An Instagram account is one of them. You need your email to activate your account."
"Yeah, yeah. I know how technology works. Get to the good part!" I groaned, taking another sip of his drink.
"You said you didn't want anything!" Marx whined. He grabbed the Coke from me and placed it just out of reach on the coffee table.
"I didn't! Not right then, anyway," I snapped. "This isn't getting us any closer to solving our case. Will you answer my question?"
Marx glared at me for a moment more, then said, "The US government can access every email address used and every person with an Instagram account has their account linked either to an email address or a phone number. Therefore, we, as FBI agents, can find out who they are from information regarding their phone number and email," Marx explained. "Got it?"
"Yes, I get it. I'm not an infant," I said snarkily.
"Good." He either didn't pick up on my rudeness or chose to ignore it, because he turned back to his computer screen and continued to comb through the files.
I pulled my knees up to my chest and laid my head on the back of the couch. Today had been an exhausting day. If my life were a book then I'm sure that this day would have taken up at least three chapters. I sighed. I really can't escape Marx, can I? I thought. It was nice to work with him again, even though it had only been a short while since he killed me. Did he regret doing the things that he did while he was with me? He was, however, and accessory to plenty of murders. I'm sure he didn't regret them much because it was his job to get close enough to me to betray me. Just another thing to add to the long list of reasons I didn't like him.
Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes. I was more tired than I'd realized, and it was only midmorning. Soon enough, I dropped off into a sleep filled with dreams of him. He morphed into Gabriel, asking Are you okay? and I looked in on my death from above. As he walked away, I could see his face. It was shell-shocked. In this dream, for days after I was killed, Marx sat in his apartment with a glass of whiskey in his hand, tear stains on his face.
YOU ARE READING
The Anatomy of Killer
General Fiction"You know how they say that the shot heard around the world was the one that started the Revolutionary War? Yeah, well they were wrong. It was the shot fired directly at my chest by a man that I thought was my friend" I was given a second chance at...
