The office window overlooks our small side yard. I lift the wooden blinds just enough to peer outside. The last thing I need is to make myself visible for a fraction of a second and risk a camera going off in my face.

Charlie stops barking. Other than a few rustling leaves in my neighbor’s yard, the night is still. I tighten the blinds and return to my makeshift crime wall.

I study the snippets. Overly Tan News Anchor was right. Most of the attacks were on tourists. Only four of the victims, not including my dad, were Chicago residents, making nine dead tourists in nine years’ time.

After his death, I found a handful of my dad’s case files locked in our file cabinet. I assumed someone from his office would retrieve them. Apparently, no one had the backbone to continue the case. The media easily convinced the nation that gangs were behind the Death Mob, and my father had pissed them off enough to make himself a mark. But Emi and everyone else are stupid to think my dad’s attack was the only targeted one.

According to my dad’s theory, every hit was targeted. And the whole operation was run by a sophisticated organized crime cartel—not local gangs. As for Morrell, he was somehow involved, but he wasn’t the main guy my dad was after. I’ve never known whether my dad knew who was in charge before he died. If that’s what got him killed.

I scan the articles for connections to Dopney or even Loveland, trying to figure out how he’s connected or who he’s connected to. I already know before I look that I won’t find anything here. I’ll have to dig deeper.

I grab four square Post-its. One for Copperhead. One for Black Hat. One for Cropped Hair Girl. And one for the gray-eyed attacker who knew my name. I stick them beneath the heading “The Swarm,” next to Lip Spike’s name, before stepping back, frustrated I can’t picture more of them.

Outside, Charlie’s barking reaches a manic level. Our neighbor’s boxer is harmless, but his barks sound vicious. He’s going to wake my mom, who would have me institutionalized if she saw any of this.

I flip the picture and hang it on the wall. It takes longer than it should to balance the thing. Feeling a bit dizzy, I hurry out of the office and hop onto the living room couch as if I’ve been there all along.

Charlie doesn’t settle easily this time. I chuck a pillow at the door. “Shut up!”

Our motion sensors flip on.

Outside, Charlie’s nails scrape against the fence as if he’s trying to climb over it. I stare at the thin curtains on our French doors that separate me from whatever is riling Charlie on the other side.