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even realize they’re in the Mob at all.”
    This got a chuckle from the audience.
    “They’ve also discovered technology,” she said, earning another wry chuckle—even from me, and I never chuckle wryly. “Facebook, Craig’s List, Ebay—anywhere vice can be brokered anonymously, you’ll find the Mob.”
    Rachael went on to discuss the Mafia’s use of technology, and their early adoption of Darknet —the untraceable side of the Internet, used to sell drugs, guns, and even set up murder contracts. I found the whole thing fascinating.
    The lawyers in the room loved her. She had an engaging personality and sharp wit. We were chuckling like crazy people through the whole thing.
    At one point she said, “Instead of gambling in basements and back rooms, they’ve moved their operations offshore to servers in Eastern Europe and—”
    Suddenly, she stopped talking. If I hadn’t been watching her face, I might have convinced myself the lights in the room had winked out very quickly and come back on. But I was watching her face. Her eyes … they appeared to flash, but not with light. Rather, with darkness . One moment they were Rachael Anderson’s eyes, and the next they were twin orbs of bottomless night. Wherever the darkness touched someone, that person’s features became shadowed in inky blackness. Beyond them, normal light stretched away like an inverted shadow.
    I blinked and looked around, but nobody acted surprised or appeared to have noticed what happened. They remained in their seats, still listening politely.
    The change in Rachael, however, was marked. Where before her manner was comfortable and controlled, now she stood stiffly, both hands raised in front of her as if startled. She stared around at the roomful of lawyers, then down at the microphone in her hand.
    The attendees muttered quietly in confusion. From the row in front of me, a woman whispered, “What’s wrong with her?”
    “Beats me,” a man said.
    Rachael raised the microphone to her mouth and said, “Um. Sorry. I have to go.” Then, as if realizing the abruptness of her comment, she added, “Thanks.”
    She put the mic in its cradle and started toward the doors. Halfway through the room she turned around and approached the long table with the other speakers. After a moment’s hesitation, she reached over and grabbed a purse off the back of the only empty seat. She looked around as if expecting someone to object, then turned and walked down the aisle, head high, ignoring the concern of the attendees.
    The man who’d first introduced her—Sam—followed after her.
    I tailed them both.
    “Rachael, wait, hold on a minute,” he said when they entered the hall.
    “Leave me alone,” she said, turning away.
    Sam lightly touched her elbow.
    Whirling on him, Rachael shouted, “Back off!”
    Sam stopped in his tracks at the sudden vehemence in her voice, staring at her like he didn’t know her anymore. Rachael kept going.
    I followed as discreetly as I could.
    She entered the lobby, looking everywhere at once and then down at her purse. Quickly, she rummaged through it, took out a wallet, and approached the desk clerk.
    I held back about ten feet, trying not to get yelled at like poor Sam back there, so I couldn’t make out everything she said. I did hear the lady working the desk say, “Room 406, ma’am.”
    Rachael thanked the clerk and went to the elevators. When she hit the button, I came over and stood next to her. The doors opened, we got on, and I reached over and pushed four. She glanced at me and looked away.
    When the doors opened, I said, “After you.”
    Rachael swooped past, stopped and stared at the arrows pointing to various room numbers, and then she was moving again.
    She found the room she wanted, then rooted through her purse and took out a room key. She inserted it, the door unlocked, and she proceeded to push through.
    Again, with me following.
    “What’s the meaning of this?” Rachael said in shocked outrage