My sister loves me. She’s the only person in the world who hugs me without pausing first, wondering if she should. She throws her arms right around me. “Joshi,” she’ll cry, “Joshi’s home,” and some days, I think I survived everything just to hear her say that.

I get moments. Not a lot of them, but still. There are times it’s almost okay to be me. So I cling to that, ’cause I gotta cling to something. I gotta try to be something, or Rita’s right: He’s won. Even from beyond the grave, he’s taken me from me. I won’t have that. I won’t.

I killed him once. I’ll be damned if he doesn’t stay dead.

Then one night, I had a revelation. I couldn’t sleep. My head was crazy with blood. I hated my clothes, my room, the feel of carpet against my skin. I hated the walls of the house and the window that stared at me like a blind eye.

I hated my mom and my dad, who kept studying me and studying me like at any time now, I oughtta be fixed, when if they’d done their job right I never would’ve gotten broken.

So I went to the kitchen for matches. Except halfway there, in the middle of the living room, I saw it. The computer.

I remembered things. Things I’d never told the police.

I took a seat.

It didn’t take long for me to find them. Or really, to make them think they had found me. I sat at the keyboard for three hours, walking the walk, talking the talk. I know how these men think.

At five a.m., I heard my father get up to pee, so I turned off the computer, crept back to my room, and crashed on top of my bed. When I woke up again, I knew what I was going to do.

I took a couple of classes. Did a little research and that took care of the rest.

I go on three nights a week now, always after midnight.

And I go hunting.

Special Agent Salvatore Martignetti. He’s back with the GBI now, working some drug task force. I can find quotes of him discussing latest arrests, moments of triumph. I can find his picture, dark face, sunken eyes. Sometimes, if the pose is just right, he looks so much like Dinchara, I want to put my fist through the computer screen. But I don’t.

Special Agent Kimberly Quincy. She’s back to work, though her assignments are harder to track, the FBI being savvier about these things. So I found her daughter instead. Little Eliza Quincy McCormack, enrolled in the local Montessori preschool. The entire school roster is available online. The page is marked parents only, but it only took me three tries to guess the password-the initials of the head schoolmistress. Amazing how many organizations think they’re being “safe” when really they’re just amusing guys like me.

Ginny Jones. She’s at the state prison, serving the last of her twelve-year sentence. Jurors are suckers for young, pregnant victims and only found her guilty on accessory to kidnapping. I don’t know where the baby went, but give me some time, I’ll figure it out. In the meantime, Ginny’s been sleeping with enough prison guards to earn herself computer privileges. So I set myself up as her latest e-mail buddy. She can’t wait to meet me one day. Trust me, the feeling’s mutual.

I’m patient, careful, observant.

Just a spider on the wall, you know, slowly spinning my web.

After checking on my past associates, I move on to the evening’s real event. I hit the sites, the blogs, the chat rooms. I make new “friends” and I tell these men everything I know how to do. I promise them action. I promise them live footage. All I need is a little info first. And once I have it, I strike.

I empty their bank accounts. I max out their credit cards, then take out new ones in their names. I set up second mortgages on e-banks and issue lines of credit. I become them, cyber identity theft. And I transfer all their money to the Center for Missing and Exploited Children. Thousands of dollars, tens of thousands of dollars, hundreds of thousands of dollars. I take everything; it’s the least they deserve.

They could complain, of course. All they’d have to do is turn over their financial records-including their online activities-to their wives, their business partners, the police.

I wonder what it feels like, when they finally realize what’s going on. That those credit card charges are not a mistake. That those e-mails from their PayPal accounts warning them of unusual activity aren’t phishing. That their checking account really is empty, and that new line of credit, already maxed out.

I wonder what it feels like when they realize there is nothing they can do. That their home is going to be foreclosed on, their brand-new car seized. That their bank accounts are frozen, their credit cards capped, and their online activities…hey, nobody’s gonna let a broke schmuck download kiddy porn.

I wonder what it feels like when they realize that they are finished, washed up, done. When they realize they are going to live the rest of their lives a specimen in the collection.

IT TAKES A LOT OF PEOPLE TO WRITE A BOOK. FIRST, there is my cute and adorable daughter. She helped inspire the book, mostly by becoming obsessed with spiders. Her newfound interest was kindled by neighbors Pam and Glenda, who gave her a set of fun-colored spider lights, then stoked by Paul and Lynda, who presented her with a tarantula roughly the size of a terrier. My daughter immediately declared the tarantula to be the mommy spider and set her up in our formal living room.

Once you’ve started living with a dog-size tarantula, a suspense novel is bound to follow.

Then there is fellow writer Sheila Connolly, who, upon hearing that I was working on a book involving spiders, offered her husband, an entomologist, to assist. Dave Williams is the kind of guy who once kept a black widow as a pet, so he was extraordinarily helpful. He not only sent me photos of brown recluse spider bites, but helped me track down an excellent article on body decomposition in outdoor hanging cases. Not everyone appreciates these things, but I learned a lot. Thanks, Dave!

Then there is my dear friend Don Taylor, who was so taken with my daughter’s hobby that he sent her several books on arachnids. We both loved the novels, though after reading Doreen Cronin’s Diary of a Spider, my daughter is also now into flies and worms. Thanks, Don!

Next up is dear friend Lisa Mac. I was bogged down one night trying to research on the Internet unusual ways to hide bodies (note to readers: search term “good ways to dispose of bodies” leads to some scary chat rooms). When I called Lisa to let her know I was running late, she literally screeched into the phone, “Stop, I have the perfect idea. I’ll be right there.” You know what, Lisa? You were right.

Then I must thank longtime friend and associate Dr. Greg Moffatt. When I mentioned I needed to come to Georgia to research a novel, he and his family rolled out the welcome mat. Now, most hosts will show you around town, but how many will take you crime scene shopping on Blood Mountain? Once again, Greg, you went above and beyond the call of duty. Thank you for a wonderful, if slightly different, Georgia tour.

I must also thank Supervisory Special Agent Stephen Emmett of the Atlanta FBI for helping me understand the Atlanta field office; Special Agent Paul Delacourt, who updated me on the post-9/11 bureau, and better yet, mentioned that the ERTs would be a perfect extracurricular for Kimberly; and finally Special Agent Roslyn B. Harris, senior team leader of the Atlanta Division Evidence Response Team, and Supervisory Special Agent Rob Coble who then graciously agreed to answer my multitude of questions regarding ERTs and the use of the Total Station. Of course all mistakes are mine and mine alone.