Omaha, Nebraska

Gibson McCutty sat in front of his computer screen, watching the clock in the lower right corner—watching and waiting. He was exhausted and trying to find something, anything, to take his mind off last night. The game wasn’t supposed to start for another twenty minutes, but some of the players checked onto the site early.

The game was by invitation only. He still remembered the day he received the e-mail. He had been depressed and angry, surfing Web sites, searching for answers, when suddenly the e-mail came through with an address he didn’t recognize. He almost deleted it as spam except that the call name caught his attention: TheSinEater. It sounded like something from a game of Dungeons and Dragons, something that promised, or rather suggested, to take away his sins.

Could it be that easy? Play a game and feel better? Sorta like going to confession in cyberspace. And the message had been simple, easy, enticing:

DO YOU WANT TO PLAY A GAME?

The rules were strict, though, prohibiting players from exchanging any personal information and using only their given code names. But before each game they were allowed to chat, to discuss strategy and talk about their characters, sometimes slipping in information about themselves disguised as information about their characters.

Not everyone participated in the chats; some rambled, some threw in only a comment here and there, others just sat back and watched. Gibson was in the last category. He learned more by sitting back and watching others, taking mental notes, keeping track of what each one said outside of the game when they had their guard down.

The first time he felt like a voyeur, feeling guilty for listening in and not participating. You had to log on to participate. Actually you had to log on to have access to the chat messages as they instant-messaged back and forth. But Gibson figured out a way to watch the chat without logging on. So none of the players knew he was listening. They didn’t even know he was there, until later when he really did log on to play the game.

Today was no different.

He waited and watched for them to begin. Anxious to see where the conversation would go. Ready to take notes, feeling almost safe again now in the light of day and from his comfortable hiding place. That is until a knock at his bedroom door startled him.

“Gibson, what are you doing in there? It’s a beautiful day outside.”

His hands immediately closed the lid of his laptop, not that she could see from behind the door.

“I’m just playing a few computer games.” Without the computer keyboard, his fingers were already probing his face, looking for new targets to erupt. It was a nervous habit he couldn’t seem to control.

“Don’t you want to go to the pool or maybe play ball with some of your friends?”

He found a new pimple on his forehead underneath his bangs. He knew his mom was trying. He had to give her credit for that. But she still treated him like he was ten or eleven instead of fifteen. Go play ball with his friends? And what friends? Hadn’t she noticed he didn’t have any, at least, none outside his computer world? She had this perception that somehow he would be an athletic superstar just like his father. Sometimes he wondered if his parents had thought that by giving him his dad’s name it would also transfer those athletic talents. How totally lame was that?

“Maybe later,” he told her, throwing her the false hope she always seemed to need.

It was easier in the long haul to agree and make her believe everything was fine. If she knew the truth, she’d be spazzing out on him. He already knew that he could handle crap much better than she could. He didn’t want her worrying about him.

“Okay, later. But do try. I don’t like you spending so much time in your room.”

“I will,” he yelled back over his shoulder, though he knew he wouldn’t.

He listened to her hesitate. She always did. He used to wish that she wouldn’t let him off the hook so easily, that she would challenge him or even threaten to reprimand him just like his dad used to. But she never did.

He listened for her footsteps until they were down the hallway. He waited for the squeak of the staircase’s telltale step. Then he wiped the blood from his fingertips onto his jeans and opened the laptop’s lid.

On his computer screen in the upper left corner was another message waiting for him, staring out at him in red type. He started to shake. He wanted to erase it, but his fingers suddenly were useless. And instead, he simply sat there and stared at the words.

I KNOW YOU’RE THERE, GIBSON. AND I SAW WHAT YOU DID.

Gibson bit down on his lower lip and balled up his hands to stop the shaking, keeping them over the keyboard, trying to think, waiting for the panic to subside. Finally he took a deep breath and punched at the keys, not stopping to check his spelling and hitting Send before he could change his mind.

WHO ARE YOU?

Then he waited.

It seemed like forever. Maybe the person was already gone. Maybe he didn’t expect a response. He could be bluffing. Or he didn’t have the guts to—

I’M THE MASTER OF THE GAME. AND YOU BROKE THE RULES.

A shiver slid down Gibson’s back. He stared at the words as if waiting and looking for more of an explanation. But he didn’t need one. He knew exactly what was going on. And worse, he realized he wasn’t safe even in his own home, in his own bedroom.