And there it is—her favorite go-to line. I feel horrible enough that someone’s in the ICU because I didn’t think it all through and plan it better. But any response would only continue the conversation, and more than anything I need her to leave. I need to study those images from the pier and prove to everyone that I can still salvage something from this: it’s not like I did it all for nothing.

She rubs her temples with one hand. Her skin has become translucent. Her eyes flicker toward the neb parts. “Finish that.” She walks around the peninsula. “I’m headed to bed.” The intensity in her voice deflates. “Don’t open the door—for anyone. With any luck, they’ll give up within the next couple hours.” She glares sideways toward the front of our house on her way toward the stairs.

With my mom finally gone, I stare at my computer, listening for signs that she isn’t coming back down. My body, which has ached with a dull throbbing since I woke at the mayor’s dock, grows light and jittery as I bide my time. I grab the neb parts on the counter and rinse them in the sink. Water splashes along the sides of the basin my mom just wiped. I set the pieces on a paper towel and wait. Upstairs, her faucet runs while she brushes her teeth. The drawers of her dresser roll out and back in. Then, silence.

A car door slams outside. Aside from the low, white-noise rumbling of news teams doing whatever it is they do when cameras are off and the hushed droning of the TV, my house is quiet and still.

I race on my tiptoes to the living room and flip the laptop open. My fingers are clumsy and slow, and I fumble to type my password and access my online gallery. I scroll through the images. The videos. I don’t see anything from the pier, which can’t be right. I search pictures, then specialty videos—I even search under the date. I took dozens of them—hundreds. But according to this, the last time I used my camera was six days ago. Maybe they haven’t downloaded yet. They just need more time. But the sinking feeling in my stomach tells me otherwise. Somewhere in the back of my head, a tiny voice confirms that someone has hacked my phone, seen the evidence, and erased it.

I stare blankly at the TV showing a bird’s-eye view of Navy Pier.

If someone’s found my phone and deleted those images, it can only mean one thing. Someone knows why I was there. And they don’t like it.