“I wanted out,” he says, his voice low and rough.

I square my shoulders, scrutinize his face, looking for the smallest tic to indicate he’s lying. People always give away their lies in their faces.

Ryan looks down at his hands. The thumb of his right hand massages the palm of his left hand, like he’s trying to clear away a smudge. “Your dad thought he could help me.”

“Why did you need help?”

He glares at me with the accusation I’m stupid for asking such an obvious question. “The people running the Swarm are dangerous. Those articles weren’t hypotheticals. The guy they stabbed and threw in the river was a beat reporter looking into the attacks. And the man by the Metra tracks? He worked for your dad.”

The body was found only a year ago. Had someone in my dad’s office continued the case? After his death? I thought everyone dismissed his work, abandoned it.

“You can’t just decide you want out and expect them to be okay with that.” He clasps his hands together. His knuckles turn white. “These people do whatever it takes to get their way.”

He defends himself with anger and raw emotion, like he’s scared, which I didn’t expect. He’s been alert and decisive in situations that have paralyzed me.

“I used to come here in the middle of the night and tell your dad what I knew. Every Monday.”

I try to picture Ryan hanging out in my living room with my dad. He was protective when it came to my mom’s and my involvement. Wasn’t he? Would he really have arranged clandestine meetings in our house with a guy from the Swarm while my mom and I slept upstairs? “He wouldn’t have allowed that,” I say, wanting to believe the claim.

Ryan shrugs his left shoulder and looks at his lap. “He thought it was the safest way to meet.”

“For who?”

Ryan’s expression deadpans. His ability to wipe his face clear of all expression unnerves me. “We were careful,” he says after another long pause. His lips remain in a perfect straight line. “I snuck in through your basement. We met in his office.”

“What sort of things did you tell him?”

For several seconds, I think he won’t respond.

Ryan rubs his palms back and forth on his knees. “I described the attacks, how we were notified, how we got involved.”

A flurry of thoughts and facts rush my head. References in my dad’s case files, particularly to a man named Paul who served as my dad’s lead witness, begin to have meaning. I try to connect invisible dots and can’t help but wonder if Ryan and Paul are the same person.

“How did you get involved?”

“It’s complicated.”

His vague response infuriates me. “So is my life, if you haven’t noticed.”