Somehow, he crossed our gravel-strewn alley, walked through the gate of our back fence, and climbed three flights of metal stairs without making a sound. His ability to sneak up on me makes me shudder. Even Charlie is quiet.

Ryan wears workout pants and a hooded sweatshirt—different from the one he wore at Navy Pier. Once again, he looks massive. Tonight, he looks like part of the Swarm.

He watches the skyline. “You’ve been busy.”

Somewhere on the street below a car door slams. I twist my necklace another turn and bite the inside of my cheek. I hear a car door slam a block away just fine, but I can’t hear a hundred-and-seventy-pound guy walk up three flights of metal stairs?

“I don’t trust him.” Ryan’s reference to Cullen Henking is clear.

I shrug. “I thought it might distract from Emi Vega calling me a Death Mob stalker.” I lean my head back against the chair.

“You could just leave the Swarm alone.”

“Before I find out how your dad’s involved?” It has more bite than I intend.

Ryan snorts. Several minutes pass before he says, “You just don’t quit, do you?” Standing, he tucks his hands into the front pouch of his sweatshirt. I’m sure he’s leaving, but instead he walks to the porch’s brick ledge that faces the city.

I tighten the quilt around my shoulders.

The side door of a van rolls before snapping shut on the street below. My head swivels toward the front of our house. If news crews are down there, they could see Ryan.

I shuffle to the ledge. Somehow, he’s standing in the perfect spot—the only spot on our roof blocked by a corner where the bricks stack a little higher than the rest. I lean back and forth, gauging whether someone might glimpse his hand on the ledge from the street below, but he’s concealed. I wonder if he knows that.

Three floors down, a narrow space of grass squeezes between our house and the neighbor’s. Flashes of water crashing against the cement wall at Navy Pier reel through my head. The way Ryan held me against the railing before throwing me in. I step back.

“Your dad was the one who found me.”

I turn toward him, tensing, anticipating what he’s about to tell me. Several wisps of hair fallen from my ponytail whip across my face.

Ryan clears his throat. “I was in a pretty bad place when I met him. A good friend of mine had died. Suicide.”

The newspaper article I read earlier today mentioned Jamie Cunnings, his suicide. Jamie’s father was part of the Lakefront Project too. It can’t be coincidental.