I profile the crowd. Two families—definitely tourists. Three more scattered clusters, all traveling in packs. But this time I see loners. A boy facing the lake, watching the waves. Baseball cap. Head down. I count four others like him leaning against the railing. They stand at least ten feet apart. Two of them talk without looking at each other. One listens to music. The fourth watches his phone as if it might ring. As if something is about to happen.

All these people who fit the Swarm’s profile seem to have materialized out of nowhere in the time Pixie Girl forced me to sign her worthless petition.

I grab my phone and steady my hand. With my best attempt at looking both casual and self-absorbed, I hit record. I take a panoramic video of the teeming crowds. I capture the boys at the railing. One of them turns his head, and I zoom in on the left side of his face. I get the kid at the base of the statue again. His exposed nose and chin. At the last second, I flip my phone around and smile as if recording myself commemorating my Labor Day weekend at Navy Pier. In doing so, I capture the girl next to me. Even if they’re all disguising themselves, it’s enough to incriminate at least some of them.

I jam my book into my bag and throw the strap over my torso, eager to head back toward the city. Get the hell off this pier before the attack breaks out. This has always been the riskiest part. I can’t get trapped at the end of the pier. The water is behind me. It’s too high to jump.

Clutching my phone, I head toward my escape on the north side of the pier, a narrow walkway by the parking garage that’s isolated from the main stretch. But three steps in, a group of guys—five of them—masked by hats, hoods, and sunglasses round the pier’s grand ballroom, heading toward the lake and the bench where I’d been sitting moments ago. Each of them looks massive and, worse, enraged.

Blood drains my body, leaving me numb and useless when I see the two spikes piercing the lead guy’s bottom lip like fangs.

The guy who killed my dad.

They’re closing in.

My hands shake. I struggle to hit record. As I do, Lip Spikes lifts his chin, giving me the best shot I’m going to get.

I turn back toward the main stretch and halt. Another cluster converges from the pier’s south side, blocking both exits. I scan for the best way out only to find the boy with the oversized hoodie at the base of the monument, staring.

At me.