“It had nothing to do with Adam’s sexuality,” I say through clenched teeth. The shaking spreads throughout my body. “The Swarm murdered him.”

Our car whines again as it nears the top of the Ferris wheel. Cullen looks down over his shoulder at something below. A nervous, surreptitious glance.

“Who’s down there?” I squint at the pier and am hit with a wave of nausea as I realize how high we are.

Cullen clears his throat. “The Save the Parks Gala is next week. I’d like you to be my date.”

At first, I’m sure I’ve misheard him. My neck bends forward, waiting for him to clarify.

When he doesn’t, I snort. “You can’t be serious.”

Cullen narrows his eyes toward Lake Michigan. “You’ve had a couple rough weeks—might be nice to go out.” His voice is flat, irritated even.

“Your social media status needs another boost?”

Cullen lowers his voice, “Don’t be difficult, Lia.” He glances out the window as we make our first pass of the platform.

“Is your dad out there?” I grip the phone beneath my leg. I wiped the search history, but the mayor could still figure out what I’d been hunting for.

Looking at the courtyard below, I scan the carousel, the swings, the remote-control boats, the outdoor bar. People are gathering, milling. Dozens of them. I close my eyes, steady myself.

It’s not the Swarm. There’s no attack.

Sweat beads on my lip. I push my sunglasses back onto my face.

I take a deep breath, focus on the technicalities of breathing. Air in. Lungs expand. Air out. I force my eyes open. When I look again, I see families, not teenagers. And no sign of the mayor.

“Say yes.”

“What?” I turn back, momentarily forgetting what he’s talking about. Everything about Cullen—his expression, his posture, the way he rakes his hand through his hair—looks restrained.

“The gala—just say yes.” He won’t make eye contact. His chin points down. His nostrils flare. His lips press together to form a slight grimace.

The car whines again as we hit the crest and make the final turn approaching the platform.

“Find another date.”

Cullen watches the city like his ego’s been hurt.

I press the phone against the side of the car, hoping it will stay undetected when we get off—as long as it doesn’t ring. Slinging the strap of my bag around my torso, I wipe my palms against my jeans.

Cullen scoots toward the door, ready to jump out. Thankfully, I don’t need to worry about him acting chivalrous, insisting I get off first, and finding the phone.

We near the platform where Richard stands next to Bushy Sideburns. His hands are tucked into the pockets of his suit pants as if he’s enjoying the blustery day.