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have to be dead to help us—in the ‘on the books’ sense of dead, I mean.
    “Junior is computer-animated art. Tonight, he’ll commit suicide in his apartment. His head’s already blown off, so the story will stick. The reporters work for us. The police—our men—work both sides of the deal. It’s for the good of mankind, Addey. You’ll see very soon. I’m sorry your brother died, and I’m sorry we’ve taken liberties with your life. You can’t ask people to do this job. You can only create these exploitable situations when real shit actually happens—real deaths, real crimes. You’re the perfect candidate. We pool the names of people like you and wait for tragedy to strike. When the shit hits the fan, we’re there to clean it up. That’s being honest.”
    Mr. Quinn turned the computer to her angle. The Web site was labeled Private Security Agency . A file was uploaded: Addey Christine Ruanova. He deleted her name, social security number, driver’s license, home address, school records, birth certificate and bank accounts—the savings at a hard-earned five grand. He was a pianist, playing to his heart’s desire.
    “Stop that! What the hell are you doing?”
    The man was taking a demented pleasure in erasing her existence. Her life was unraveling. She was helpless to those orchestrating the downfall. “So I’m dead now in flesh and on paper? Is this getting you off? You’re really enjoying this. Well, I don’t think it’s so funny. Show some humility. Asshole .”
    “Humility? I might be ruthless, but it’s necessary. This is a tough job, dismantling people’s lives and sending them off to that damnable island.”
    “Island? Am I going on vacation?”
    “You wish.” Now he was somber. “Okay, I apologize for getting carried away. I’m scaring you, and you’ve been through the worst night of your life.”
    “This is the worst night of my life.” She stubbed her cigarette into the ashtray. “Can I have another one?”
    He handed her another cigarette and a book of matches. “Knock yourself out. You deserve it.”
    She smoked with a vigor unknown to her, though she normally smoked half a pack a day. She was taking in too much information and was already backed up with other questions. Understanding wasn’t an option, she concluded. She had to listen to the man talk, and that was it.
    Her mind churned out deplorable ideas. “So what’s my funeral going to be like?”
    He smirked. “Closed casket.”

Chapter Three
    Mr. Quinn removed her handcuffs and directed her to a different wing of the facility. The building as a whole seemed uninhabited at this time of night. She could read it was one o’clock in the morning on the oversize clock in the foyer. The water fountain nearby eased the tension in her body, the sound of water pattering against water. She clung to anything to distract her from the night’s events. It wasn’t long before a security officer at the desk ahead of them monitored them with too much interest.
    “Good evening, Mr. Quinn,” the security officer said. “How goes you?”
    “Evening, Ted.”
    They shared a look that agreed she was in for something crazy.
    They cleared a short hall, where at each side of them was a wooden door, one marked “Men’s” and the other “Women’s”. It reminded her of the segregation of a public swimming pool. She heard the sound of a running shower in the far background. Mr. Quinn stopped at a hole in the wall marked “Receiving”.
    “This is your stop,” he said, tapping the bell on the counter twice. A person was awakened from the back. The woman was in her late sixties, her beehive hair an obvious wig. Her eyes were slanted and red from sleep. “How was your nap, Stella?”
    “Wonderful until you came along.” Stella studied Addey with sympathy. The woman dug into a shelf behind her, gathered ten different pieces of paperwork, stapled them and placed them on a clipboard. “Sign your life away.”
    Mr. Quinn sneered at