Wiping my eyes, I slide out of my sheets and make my way to the front of the house. My mom’s room is empty and gray despite the sunlight seeping in through the cracks of the closed blinds. Her bed is made, the comforter tight and creaseless across the mattress. My father’s picture, free of dust, sits at the perfect angle toward her bed. While my floor is littered with dust bunnies and week-old clothes, hers is spotless. Immaculate.

I tiptoe across the hardwood to the window as if the reporters outside have secret X-ray cameras that might detect me. Careful not to move the blinds, I peek through the crevices for any sign of news crews. I spot three, a significant cutback. Still, their presence aggravates me.

Last night before I fell asleep, three different networks posted pictures of me with Cullen Henking and called our speculated relationship “breaking news.”

Because that’s what our city should be focusing on.

I peek one more time, just to be sure. No Escalade.

Grabbing a bra, I loop my hair in a constricted ponytail on top of my head and brush my teeth. I ignore the new bottles of magnesium spray and lavender soap, my mom’s idea of calming agents that she’s strategically placed next to the sink, and head downstairs.

Today isn’t about resting. Or relaxing. Despite my mom’s not-so-subtle hints.

According to my dad’s files, he’d traced most of the Death Mob’s victims back to a city resident. The connections were obscure—a daughter’s ex-boyfriend, an old college roommate, a former colleague. One time the Swarm attacked an old woman who barely spoke English. That one really fired people up. My dad discovered she was a childhood nanny to a city alderman.

If my dad’s theory was right and all the attacks were targeted, the Swarm wanted to warn or get revenge on whoever Dopney was connected to. As far as I can tell, my dad couldn’t figure out their motive beyond that. But maybe he just needed one more connection.

I grab a bowl of Raisin Bran and head to the living room—a room, according to my mom, reserved for sitting, not eating, as if I might spill white milk on her white linen couches and ruin them. Sitting cross-legged on the floor at the edge of our square coffee table, I pull my laptop over.

With the Swarm likely monitoring my online activity, I can’t exactly search “Why was Dopney in Chicago.” But reading articles about the attack and its victim is hardly unreasonable. It’d be more suspicious if I was avoiding updates.

I type “Jeremiah Dopney,” producing over six hundred thousand hits. I click the first link from the Tribune posted an hour ago and shovel a spoonful of cereal into my mouth.