My phone chimes again, but I’m too caught up wondering if this has been Cullen’s motive all along. Today’s teasing, his fake comradery, helping me with the cameras, taking me home—I can’t help but think he orchestrated it so he could ask me my secrets in a moment like this. And for what? So he can spill them to reporters, monopolize the attention?

We pass Second City and hang a left on North Avenue. My phone chimes, nagging me to check the incoming text. Theyre making you sound like a couple. I hope ur not still w him. Followed by, Dont ignore me. I got something for you.

Cullen’s phone buzzes too. “We’ve already made the news. According to Celia Green, I looked very attractive.”

??? I text. He must already have the IP address. My heartbeat thumps in my temples as I wait for Adam to fill in details.

Search Alligator?

I’ll ditch tonight!! Spill!

Even if the IP address doesn’t link to the guy in charge of organizing the attacks, it will at least tie to one of his lackeys. Maybe a house. Or apartment complex? Even an office building is a lead.

Cullen leans over like we’re exchanging secrets. “Did I look attractive, Lia?”

He runs a light as it turns red. Two cars honk at him.

I grip the door, bracing myself. “Watch the road.”

Adam texts, Took 42 minutes. New record.

Cullen accelerates. “Where to in Gold Coast?”

With one hand still clutching the door, I silently curse Adam for taking so long.

“Am I supposed to guess?”

Then at last: Snapchat from Adam Cohen.

Of course. He has to make this difficult.

Grabbing a pen from my purse, I tap the notification, half convinced they wiped my account for inactivity. It’s a picture of numbers. I scribble 24.192.0.28 to my wrist before the image switches to a scrap of paper with Adam’s handwriting: creepy demonic building ;) The second snap vanishes faster than the first.

In true Adam fashion, he’s ambiguous on purpose in case my phone isn’t safe, but I know exactly where he means. The Harold Washington Library. The giant Gothic owls perching along its roof freak Adam out. He calls them spawns of Satan, mostly because he knows they fascinate me.

“Change of plan,” I say. “Drop me off at the Brown Line.” It’s not the lead I’d hoped for. So many people use the Harold Washington Library computers each day that it might be another dead end. But it’s the only thing I have to go on.

Cullen scoffs. “I’m not a cab.”

He yanks the wheel to the right, shooting across three lanes of traffic. I brace myself as cars screech and swerve to avoid us. Cullen stops at a curb, in front of an Italian café.