She heads to the kitchen and comes back with an ice cube. She presses it into my palm and wraps my fingers around it. “Give me a minute to get dressed. We’ll go back to the hospital . . .”

“Mom.” I push the words out as the cold begins to sting my hand. “I’m fine.”

My mom studies my expression like I might be lying to her. She walks over to the door, locks it, and picks up a bag she must have brought in from outside. She sets it on the armchair and heads to the fireplace to put the poker away.

As if in slow motion, my gaze drifts to the bag—my bag.

Dizziness rushes to my head all over again.

“Where’d you find that?” I force myself to remain calm.

“On the table outside. You need to stop leaving your stuff lying around the porch. Any of those reporters out there would love a chance to rifle through your purse.”

I stifle a gasp, but my mom doesn’t seem to notice. She heads to the kitchen to straighten and close the junk drawer. She taps one nail on the granite like she’s debating whether to drag me back to the ER.

“Turn out the lights when you go to bed,” she says at last. She walks up the stairs, her shoulders tight, her bathrobe fluttering behind her.

I look to the armchair and press my back into the corner of the couch as the ice cube slides from my grip, landing somewhere on the floor.

Anyone could have picked up my bag and returned it. Dozens of firemen, police officers, paramedics, and reporters continue to comb the area. And the entire city now knows where I live. But only the Swarm would break into my backyard and leave it on my porch.

Like a deadly addiction, I reach for it. I peer inside to find papers I’ve never seen before. A packet folded in half that someone wanted me to find.

I should get my mom, call Detective Irving.

Instead I pinch the corner with two fingers and pull it out like a bomb. They’re printouts. Newspaper articles.

In one hasty movement, I unfold them, spread them over the coffee table. Three articles. I scan their headlines, wondering what this has to do with me.

“Blogger Killed on Bike by Hit-and-Run”

“Local Beat Reporter Stabbed to Death; Pulled from Chicago River”

“Body Found Near Ravenswood Metra Tracks”

I dig through my purse for anything else, unsure of what it means to find my phone at the bottom.

A tiny spark of hope flickers inside me, and I suppress it. Finding them now, like this, would be too easy. Illogical even. I key in my passcode and scroll through my images. Like I thought, they’ve been erased. Everything from Navy Pier.

At the bottom of my screen, two thumbnails catch my eye. Pics I didn’t take.