Pia asked the car to drop her off as close as he could get to her dorm building on Haven Avenue. There was still a police presence with artificial lighting at this location of the abduction and shooting. The fare was $12, and she gave the driver the twenty Burim had given her and didn’t stop for change. On the ride down, Pia had concentrated her thoughts on Will, ignoring her father, who was jabbering away in the front seat. She tried not to think about her ordeal; at least she was safe now. Pia had no thought about whether or not she was going to try to establish a connection with her father, but she did know she’d have nothing at all to do with Drilon. The few things she remembered about him were all painful.

Pia focused. She wasn’t worried about talking to the police—after all, it wouldn’t be the first time. She’d build a wall around what happened at the house and not recount any of it; in all other aspects, she could be truthful. And there were some truths she was still determined that everyone know. There would be no possibility of a cover-up.

Pia walked up to the front desk in the dorm. There were two uniformed cops by the elevator, but Pia hoped that her strange garb and the fact that she’d bunched her hair up under a baseball cap would throw off a casual onlooker. Despite the late hour, students were coming in from studying at the Health Science Center or from a night out. A few others were on their way out, having been called to the hospital for emergencies.

Pia knew the person staffing the front desk and asked him about Will McKinley.

“Pia, is that you?” the young man said. “Cops are looking for you. They said you got kidnapped or something crazy.”

“No, I’m fine. Will—tell me about Will.” Pia gestured with her index finger over her lips to silence the man from calling attention to her presence.

“Oh, man, I heard he got shot in the head, but he survived. He was taken over to the Neurological Institute, and he had surgery. One of the other fourth-years said he’s in Intensive Care.”

Without another word, Pia turned and walked away from the desk and made her way over to Neurosurgical Intensive Care. She saw plenty of cops and security guards, but they were on the lookout for a woman with long black hair, not someone wearing a New York Jets sweatshirt to mid-thigh, soccer socks, and a baseball cap. She looked like a cheerleader.