“Will it vindicate Rafael Nuñez?”

“CPD dropped that lead weeks ago.”

I open my mouth for another retort, but I have nothing to say. Nothing to argue. I can’t exactly tell her I have people—one person, actually—willing to talk.

“I’m hoping to get a few shots of Sydney Cornell with people from the Lakefront Project at the gala. All of them are so narcissistic, at least some of them are bound to be there, even if it blatantly contradicts their objectives.”

Something inside me crumbles. “I’m going,” I whisper.

Emi’s eyes become squinty. “I get that you want to do something, but this really isn’t the place for you to—”

“With Cullen Henking,” I cut in. “The mayor wants me near him. He’s making me go.”

Recognition clicks on Emi’s face. She rests her fingers on her lip. “For a photo op. Of course he would.”

I don’t know if I should say it or not. It comes out before I decide. “The mayor heads the Death Mob.”

“We still can’t prove it. And until then, you should—”

“The next attack is the night of the gala.”

For once, Emi is silent. She stares at me for several prolonged seconds. “Where is it?”

“Didn’t say.”

More silence hangs between us as Emi seems to consider what it may mean.

“Remind me not to underestimate you.” She glances at the computer. “Though you suck at covering your tracks.”

She pulls out a cell from her Prada bag. “This is for you.” She hands over a phone. The plastic covering is still on the screen. “If you think of anything, or”—she stares at the phone—“if you need help, my number is programmed in there. The password is zero, nine, two, eight, one, five.” She smiles wryly, indicating there’s something to the numbers I’m missing.

“Am I supposed to recognize that?”

“The last two are Hewitt boy’s address.” She looks at her nails. “I pinned it on Maps, if you’re interested.”

I stare at the phone, wondering what else she put in there.

Her eyebrows pinch. She holds eye contact. “Whoever’s running the Death Mob . . .” Emi drops her voice to a whisper. “Especially if it’s the mayor—just be careful.”

“Are you ladies interested in phones today?” a sales associate in blue-rimmed glasses asks as he rubs his hands together.

Emi doesn’t look his way. “We’re on our way out.”

“Alrightee then. I’ll just be over here if you need me.”

Emi grabs my wrist. “Don’t go to the gala.” Her concern catches me off guard.

A stinging sensation starts beneath the bridge of my nose. “I have to.”

“I can find you a way out.”

“They threatened my mom.” My voice is small, desperate.