Ryan clears his throat. “I didn’t throw you far enough off the pier. When you went into the water, you didn’t come back up.”

“You jumped in.”

“When I brought you to the surface, you started coughing right away, but your breathing was rapid.” He rakes his hands through his short dark hair. “I swam as fast as I could away from the pier before anyone saw you, but you needed help.”

“So you dumped me on the mayor’s dock?”

“I didn’t have many options. I had no idea how long you had without your inhaler.”

“How did you know about my asthma?”

“I check in on you,” he says. “Sometimes. After your dad died, I didn’t know if they’d go after you or your mom.”

He doesn’t flinch or look away or give any hint that he’s making it all up.

The rhythmic whirl from the oscillating fan fills the room. I wish he would’ve worn his ratty sweatshirt instead of something so normal looking. My foot throbs where it touches his. When I can’t take it anymore, I pull it away, setting it on the coffee table. I expect him to scoot over so my calf isn’t pressed against his hip, but he doesn’t. My entire leg begins prickling.

“I took pictures and videos of the attack. Did you erase them?”

He nods.

“They were good ones.” I tried to recover them, but he’d been thorough wiping them from my phone and the cloud.

His eyes look so intently into mine I’m tempted to look away. “If they found out you had those images, you’d be dead.” He pauses, allowing the weight of his words to sink in. “All those people on Navy Pier, taking pictures, and the cops don’t have anything? The Swarm is good at covering its tracks.” Ryan scoots closer, brushing against my leg, a detail I’m trying hard to ignore. “I need to know if you answered the tweet about the attack.” There’s an edge to his voice, like everything rides on how I respond.

Answered the tweet? I shake my head and pretend to know what he’s talking about.

“If you signed in, if they knew you’d be there . . .”

“I didn’t.” My words are tiny and weak as my head reels with the implications of what he’s saying. “Did you?” I have no idea what I’m asking, but I try to look assured, hoping his answer reveals something. At this point, I’m desperate for anything that could turn into a lead.

“I didn’t have a choice.” His voice is low and remorseful. His eyes stay hard.

Captured beneath his stare, I fight the urge to squirm beneath it.

“They’re trying to figure out how much you know.”

“I know the Latino gang isn’t behind it.”