Realizing he isn’t going to reveal anything I want, I stare out the passenger window. Maybe I don’t need to know more. I already know the details of his face—enough to give a sketch artist. It’s better than nothing. And if that’s the only tangible evidence I have, I’m not afraid to turn it over. Regardless of whether he knew my dad.

Every home we pass is dark, with the exception of a hall light or a front room lamp, casting the impression that people are inside. Usually the sidewalks are busy with runners or dog walkers, but tonight the streets are empty. Several blocks away, a halo of light rises above the buildings. I’m sure it’s my house, the brightness thanks to reporters still camped out front, eager to grill me about my lust for Cullen Henking.

He jerks the steering wheel, and we come to an abrupt halt on the side of the road. “You need to be smarter.”

He turns toward me, his eyes glistening against the ill-lit street. They don’t feel distant and cold—emotion lies behind them, one I still can’t pinpoint. And it drives me crazy. I’m usually better at reading people.

“They’re watching you closely. Make yourself irrelevant.”

We sit a few feet apart, his coffee house rock playing softly in the background. For a second, it almost seems like we’re fighting on the same side in a war against the city.

“Were you following me today?”

“Yes.”

I didn’t expect an honest response. “Were you following me yesterday at the pier?”

“No.”

“Were you there to kill Jeremiah Dopney?”

“I was part of the Swarm.”

I clench my jaw, trying not to wince at the thought of him beating Dopney to his death. I can’t forget who he is and what he does. We’ll never be on the same side of anything.

“Were you there when my father was killed?”

“No.” He looks in the direction of my house three blocks away. “If I were . . .” He turns back toward me and my heart leaps in my chest. “I would have done everything I could to save him.” He sounds sincere, like it’s the most important thing he’s said to me all evening.

He nods at the passenger door. “Time to go.”

“What’s your name?”

He remains silent, like he’s used up his allotted word quota for the day.

I unbuckle, reach for the door handle, and wait. I won’t leave without an answer. At the very least, I need to know what to call him.

His steel eyes flash at me like a wolf’s. “Ryan.” He points to my house. “Looks like you’ve got company.”

Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12