I shake my head. Mist from the nebulizer seeps from my mask and billows around my face. I should be hungry, but I can’t bring myself to eat. My stomach, like everything else, is hollow. My arms hang like dead weights to my sides, and my hair, still damp from the shower, falls down my back like a thick, blonde, lifeless ribbon.

Emi takes a seat across from a woman interviewing her in a room similar to ours.

My mom turns up the volume.

Behind Emi, the same painting of blue and beige chrysanthemums hangs on the wall. A banner at the bottom of the screen proclaims “Death Mob in Chicago: Exclusive Breaking News.”

Instead of giving a rhapsodic exposition on the Death Mob era, a woman with pale skin and dark features jumps right into tonight’s attack. She warns viewers the footage they’re about to show includes a fatality, the victim’s final moments.

Ryan.

I brace myself, and my mom puts her hand on top of mine.

Rioting protestors fill the screen. Whoever filmed it had an elevated vantage point. I imagine someone standing on top of a van parked on Michigan Avenue. The camera is too far away to see faces, but it’s easy to spot the Initiators. They part through the protestors with ease. One of them winds up to punch Ryan, who’s already charging them.

I don’t realize I’m crying until everything blurs. Ryan hits first, but then he’s devoured. Within seconds, he completely disappears. A flash of light explodes from inside the Swarm as the gunshot fires. The camera begins shaking as people run away. The footage cuts.

Hot tears stream down my face and pool at the base of my neck. I’m shattered, too stunned to move. My mom doesn’t move either. Other than the hand resting on mine, she makes no attempt to make me feel better. She knows as well as I do, I will never feel better. Even once Emi outs Richard, and Richard is locked away forever, I will celebrate the victory but I will not feel better. I will feel hollow and damaged, scarred by everything I’ve seen in the last few months, just like Dr. What’s-His-Name always predicted.

Emi sits in a Peninsula armchair. She looks at ease as she talks about my father, how he’d always been out to prove that the Death Mob was organized, though not by gangs, and that the victims were targeted. I should be on edge, waiting for her to announce to the world my father was right, but my body is heavy, like I could sink into the feather pillows and drown in the down comforter.

“After his murder, his daughter continued his mission. Lia Finch discovered that the Death Mob communicated through Twitter.”