An image of the gray-eyed attacker flashes in my head. The clinical look on his face as he studied the water. The severity behind his eyes when he ordered me to jump. What was he trying to do? Help me? Kill me?

A chill shudders across my neck. Did he really call my name?

Outside lights flash on—several sets of them. The TV screen switches to Overly Tan News Anchor sobering his expression. Emi Vega’s picture, as she stands outside my house, appears in the upper corner. I leap toward the couch for the remote. I toss the blanket and throw pillows looking for it. I drop to my knees, stick my hand beneath the couch, and finally find it. My shirt becomes twisted. I crouch low, listening to Emi spew her thoughts, my wet hair clinging to my face.

“. . . from Loveland, Ohio. Jeremiah Dopney, age thirty-three, had checked into the Westin by himself . . .”

WGN shows his picture. He’s thin but attractive. Dark hair, blue eyes, dark scruff. He’s smiling in a way that lights up his whole face. He looks . . . friendly, sociable. The kind of guy who travels with people, visits people. Not the type to come to a city by himself.

“Please don’t die,” I whisper.

Emi says something about “critical condition” before my neighbor’s dog barks, jolting me.

“Charlie!” I release my breath. “Shut up, you stupid dog.” As I say it, I imagine some slum reporter sneaking around the back for a glimpse of what I’m doing, and I’m somewhat relieved to have a guard dog.

I glance toward the stairs, making sure my mom isn’t coming down. “Jeremiah Dopney from Loveland, Ohio” is the first real puzzle piece I’ve had in the last two years. Without the images from the pier, it’s all I have to go on.

Dismissing the scrutiny I’m under from reporters, likely the Swarm, and my mom, who’s about to become the worst type of helicopter parent, I summon the energy to get up off the couch and head toward my dad’s office to figure out how it even possibly connects.

Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

A few months before my dad died, he bought an old six-foot print of Chicago’s skyline along Lake Michigan for his office. He was nostalgic like that. The first time I saw it, I didn’t get why he wanted it. The city looked stark and bare without the Lakefront mansions.

After he died, I spent hours staring at it, taking consolation in the picture’s calming presence. Parks, public beaches, and harbors line the lake. Before its renovations, even Navy Pier’s small, rickety appearance had charm. I look at Navy Pier in the picture, imagining it swathed with emergency crews, awash in red and blue flashing lights. I’ll never see Navy Pier as charming again.