By now, at the very least, this place should be littered with undercover agents snapping their telephoto lenses at every potential perpetrator—something part of me knew would never happen. CPDs become predictable like that. And with their tendency to botch everything, maybe it’s better I’m here alone, armed with an iPhone and the perfect opportunity to prove everyone wrong.

It wouldn’t be the first time a high schooler had to jolt adults into action.

I check my phone’s battery life. According to a witness, the first teen who hit my dad had two silver spikes pierced through his bottom lip. For attackers that operate on anonymity, the lead was rare. Not that Detective Irving thought so. He claimed it was hearsay. Said he needed tangible evidence. Pictures. Videos. Clear shots of their faces.

I scroll through the images I’ve already taken. Enough to rival any tourist. And while I haven’t seen Lip Spikes, that doesn’t mean there aren’t others already here, blending in with the crowd.

Raising my phone again, I imitate the tourists. I angle and fidget with my screen like I’m capturing something picturesque and click. The walkway ahead. The plaza to my right.

Down the pier, a small group clusters beside the mini cruise ship. A captain and first mate stand at the end of a carpeted ramp, greeting each tourist climbing aboard with a reassuring, artificial smile. I zoom in on the third crewmember, who stands at ease. His eyes shift around, like he’s searching for any sign of disturbance. For something about to begin?

I snap a shot and scrutinize it. His age is right—between fifteen and twenty-one. But nothing else fits the Swarm’s profile. He isn’t alone. He’s not masking his identity.

My breath hitches, making the inhale shallow and unsatisfying, as I chuck the phone into my bag. I close my eyes, relax my shoulders, and curse the weather for changing too quickly this year. Air in. Air out. Slow. Methodic. My lame attempt at convincing my body that breathing isn’t so hard.

A phone chimes next to me.

My attention snaps to a girl approaching from the left. She sits beside me on the bench. Nineteenish. Bronze skin. Copper-colored hair slicked back in a tight ponytail. Her oversized scarf conceals her neck, half her face. Sunglasses. A local—likely hiding her identity.

I jerk my eyes away. Take another deep breath. Pinching the pendant on my necklace, a tiny four-leaf clover imprinted on a silver disk, I twist the chain around my finger. Scan the crowd.

An older group near the hot dog stand cackles at the vendor telling jokes in his fake Italian accent. The popcorn guy next to him takes money from three girls—all too young—and scoops popcorn in one continuous motion. A thirty-something couple takes selfies by the railing.