“Ombuds’ office. We need to look at the scene.”

The cop used his radio to check in with someone, then waved us through.

Connor drove slowly the quarter mile to the gate. From this side, the structure looked relatively unscathed. But then he drove onto the shoulder, circled around to the south side. It did not look unscathed from that angle. Beneath the hard bright lights the CPD had set up, gaps and holes pocked the gate’s surface. The asphalt was still broken by chunks of stone nestled in the craters they’d made. And while there was no green fog, there was still a tinge of magic in the air.

“Damn,” Connor said, as we climbed out of the SUV. “I believed you, but seeing it in person is—harrowing.”

“It was harrowing last night.”

Before I could object—there were cops and construction workers everywhere—he’d pulled me against him until our bodies were aligned. And then he gave me a kiss so hot my knees went wobbly.

“What . . . was that for?” I asked when I could breathe again. And ignored the whistles around us.

“Gratitude,” he said, dropping his forehead to mine. “That you’re still alive.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “You can be my consultant and help me look. You take the structure, or as close to it as you can.” Scaffolding had been erected on this side of the gate, and workers were attaching wooden struts and supports to keep it upright. “I want to check out the path she took.”

Connor pulled a small flashlight from his pocket, offered it.

“Good consulting already,” I complimented, and headed toward the grass and the flags left by the CPD.

There wasn’t much to see near the road—just the faint indentations made by someone who’d moved through the shin-high grass. They led down to a ditch, then up again to a grassy field marked ominously by the white-silver skeleton of a tree long-since dead.

The world was quieter without the rush of traffic, and I walked, scanning the ground for footprints or broken undergrowth. The trail wasn’t consistent, but it was straight. I followed it until I could hear only the songs of frogs and katydids, probably the last before winter’s fall.

“Come on, Rose,” I murmured. “Show me that you made these tracks. Show me where you are. Show me you’re alive.”

Because that was the hope. That she’d made it through despite our failure to protect her.

But the trail petered out at a dirt road that divided the meadow from a field of yellowing corn. I shifted the flashlight’s beam back and forth, but found nothing useful. The road was poorly maintained and rutted into concrete hardness, so it was impossible to read the tracks, or at least for a beginner like me.

I closed my eyes, tried to tune out distractions and get a sense of the magic of the place, but I didn’t detect any unusual buzz. Just the faint background vibration that seemed to be Chicago generally.