Emi nods. “Dante Ipstein. Arrests will be made before the night is over.” The van comes to a rolling stop beneath the Peninsula’s brightly lit curbside drop-off. “You’ve done it, Lia. The Swarm is unraveling.”

“Now you get to expose Richard and revel in your success.”

Emi’s face hardens. “I’ll let that slide because you had a rough night.” She pulls lipstick out of her purse. Puts it on. “I gave you a phone, Lia. You pieced this thing together. You got Richard Stewart to confess. You took down the Death Mob. The success is yours. I’m just the one reporting it.”

My eyes well. I want to be happy. Maybe even appreciative. It’s what I’ve spent the last two years trying to achieve. But I’m drained, and the victory’s come at the expense of too many people I loved.

“Stay here,” Emi says. She maneuvers into the passenger’s seat, where a hotel doorman opens her door. She rushes toward the lobby, leaving me with her cameraman driving the car.

Every inch of my body feels dirty. I want to get out of this dress, scrub the makeup off my face, including the mascara smeared on my cheeks that makes me look like some psycho clown. I need it gone. All of it.

I hear the gunshot that killed Ryan, and I shudder. I picture the Swarm closing in on him until I couldn’t see him anymore. They seemed to swallow him whole.

When I glance up, the cameraman’s watching me through the rearview mirror. He looks away when we make eye contact, but not before I notice how bloodshot and glassy his eyes look. One hand rests on the steering wheel. I spot the tattoo on his forearm peeking out beneath the rolled ends of his jacket. Inside what looks to be a thick black circle are angular bars and swirls patterned like a kid’s maze. Only the top is visible, but I immediately recognize it as the same tattoo the paramedic had on his forearm the night of Adam’s attack. He catches me staring.

“What does it mean?” I ask, my throat dry and swollen.

“Strength and resilience.” The cameraman watches me as if studying my reaction. Once again, I’m caught by how red and glassy his eyes look.

“I’ve seen one like it before.” I look toward the Peninsula’s front doors, trying to end the awkward small talk.

He twists his body around so he’s facing me. The confrontation catches me by surprise. “You don’t know what it is?” His voice is hoarse. A thin layer of blond scruff covers his cheeks, chin, and neck. He appears to be in his early twenties, a lot younger than I initially thought.

“I was forced into the Swarm for two years,” he says.

I stop breathing. Silence fills the car.