“My father,” my voice squeaks. “My father,” I say again, sounding somber, “loved Navy Pier. He started his career in the Navy.” Not what I’d rehearsed. “He was an attorney for the Navy.” I can sense red blotches creeping up my neck. “He loved to go there on weekends.”

All three camera lenses swell. “I wanted to spend a holiday meant to celebrate working men and women honoring his memory. My father worked hard for this city.”

A burning sensation ignites behind the bridge of my nose. I clench my gut. “That’s all I have to say.”

I try to sidestep them, but they inch closer.

“Can you tell us what you saw, Lia?”

“What was it like watching what happened to your father?”

“What’s your reaction to alleged gang affiliate Rafael Nuñez being brought in for questioning?”

I step back, nearly tripping over the stair as I climb it. I don’t know who they’re talking about. “What?”

“What did the Death Mob members look like?”

“What did you share with police that implicated the Latin Royals?”

I search for my next sentence, my next move. “I didn’t.” I sound too weak, uncertain.

The cameras move closer, as if to swallow my head with their little black mouths.

Cullen steps in front of me, forcing them back. “As I told you earlier today, Lia has been through a traumatizing ordeal. She’s answered everyone’s burning question, but now, understandably, needs time to mourn the loss of her father and pray for Dopney and his fight for life.”

His response sounds calm, rehearsed, like something his dad might say. How didn’t I come up with something so simple?

“Now, if you’ll excuse us,” Cullen says.

Maybe I should shove him away. Proclaim I want nothing to do with him in front of the cameras. It’s not like he actually cares about me or my father or Dopney. But the courtyard is thick and claustrophobic, and my inadequacy handling the media is glaring. Cullen guides us away from the reporters shredding me with their questions, and I let him.

He loops his arm around my shoulder in a way-too-intimate gesture. I imagine viewers watching at home, fawning over his chivalry, speculating about a relationship between us, and I jerk my shoulder.

He chuckles under his breath. His hand slips away as I focus on placing one foot in front of the other, desperate to escape this moment I’m sure will be broadcast a million times over tonight.

Cullen pulls his keys from his pocket. His Lexus beeps twice. The engine starts.

“No way,” I say, refusing to get in a car with him.

I backpedal, eager to walk home and put this all behind me, when a WGN news van passes. It parks a few cars down, and Emi Vega jumps out in four-inch heels.

This can’t be happening.

Cullen opens the passenger door. “The lesser of two evils?”