“A lot of rich, drunk, insincere people pretending to care about something they don’t. Yourself included. They’re going to be all about you and your Lifetime story.” Cullen pulls out his phone and flips through it. “Good thing you don’t buy into that crap.”

I lay both hands on the purse in my lap, gently feeling the outline of the two phones and my inhaler crammed inside.

We turn down State Street, which seems more crowded than usual, even for a Saturday night. Two couples hail a cab at Oak Street. The men wear tuxes. The women wear long earrings and evening gowns. Black and purple skirts twist in the wind beneath their coats.

Across the city, I imagine the mayor and his entourage arriving in their limo. They snake their way around the white stone octagon, admiring the panoramic view of the city. The mayor, his wife—flown in for the occasion—and their party climb the formal staircase, beneath a white awning descending like a tongue from the aquarium’s front entrance. Photographers and news crews crowd around the Greek columns, I’m sure, snapping shots of local celebrities like it matters.

My phone chimes. For a moment I think it’s the burner phone, the Death Mob sending the tweet. But that phone’s on vibrate.

Cullen glances my way as I stare at my lap.

I open the clutch and peek inside. Detective Irving’s name lights up my screen.

My back tenses. After debating for several days, I called him last night. Left him a message. Gave him details of what I know about the attack with the hope that whatever’s about to happen, he’s ready to make arrests when it’s over.

I imagine answering it, explaining in some coded way what I’m being forced to do. Would he care? Would he try to help? By calling him, I might have alerted the mayor that I’m onto him, giving him the greater advantage. My mom trusts Irving. I hope I can too. Either way, I can’t talk to him with Cullen in the car. I silence the ringer, resigned to stick to my plan.

As we head south toward Museum Campus, the traffic thickens until we are inching along one block at a time.

Cullen rolls down his window. A muffled roar of shouting pours into the town car. “What’s going on?” he asks the driver.

“Protestors rioting on Michigan.” The driver looks at us through his rearview mirror.

I strain my ears. Chanting—I can just make it out. I’m not sure what they’re saying. Looking toward the downtown chaos, I notice white flakes swirling in the air. It must have just started. The season’s first sign of snow.

“It’s all over the news,” the driver says.