I’m taken aback by how much is being made from selling off property along Lake Michigan that used to be owned and protected by the city.

Adam leans in. “Five hundred million, Lia. That’s apparently the price it takes to create and run an organized mob that kills people. And there’s money being hidden—real estate records, property taxes, zoning, city budget. None of it matches up.”

He’s going too slow. “Who’s profiting the most?” It’s going to be Harry Hewitt. Ryan was wrong, or lied—doesn’t matter. His dad heads it.

“That’s the thing—the money’s spread out. Plenty of contractors and real estate agents have made a quick dime off selling the property or the construction. Most of them have teenage kids.”

“Who are forced into the Swarm.” My head feels light and dizzy. Adam has done it. He’s figured out the key players, how they’re all connected, which sounds bigger than even I’d assumed. But all that matters to me right now is the person who heads it all.

Adam picks at the corner of his iPad case and stares off toward the front of class. Anyone watching him might think he’s studying Mater’s handwritten scrawl on the SmartBoard, but I’ve seen that look hundreds of times. He’s piecing something together.

“Here’s what I don’t get. The city makes money by selling off property to people who want to live in Chicago, which means they want the city to be desirable. And tourism would only increase the money coming in on top of whatever they’re making off this Lakefront thing.”

Every inch of me tightens. “Who is it?”

“So then why scare everyone off with the Swarm? Why make everyone want to get away from the city?” His eyes narrow and focus on one spot across the room, but I don’t care about the opposing objectives of the Swarm and the Lakefront Project.

“Adam!” I practically scream, shaking him from his daydream. “Who’s in charge?”

He shrugs. “The mayor.”

Like it’s the only logical answer, and I should’ve realized that several minutes ago. The classroom chaos recedes into distant background noise, and I become acutely aware of my breathing, the tiny little wheeze that underlies every breath I take.

After Dopney’s attack, the mayor, with his slicked-back hair and his thousand-dollar suit, stood behind a podium and promised to pursue Dopney’s attackers. He sat at my dining room table, brought me coffee drinks, claimed we were on the same side, fighting the same battle. He praised my father’s work after he had my father murdered. My face grows hot as I think of how close I came to telling him everything I knew.

A familiar laugh draws me back to the present.