Besides, “Lotti” was at the Renouvelle Hotel, just ten minutes or so away, in Chicago’s South Loop. I pulled away from the hospital and headed in her direction. The rain was picking up, and I put on my wipers, somehow comforted by the slow and steady squeak of the blades against the glass. A few minutes later, I was turning onto her block, a narrow two-lane street with dark and shadowy boutique stores and restaurants on either side. The only activity was at the end of the block, where I saw the lights from the hotel and a handful of people standing around outside.

As I drove up, I spotted the man right away.

He was standing perfectly still in the street, right in front of the hotel, wearing a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up around his face. I knew instinctively that it was him—that he was Lotti—but I was still hopeful that another grandmother would emerge from the shadows and ask to be taken to meet a newborn.

I could handle chatty.

I could not handle serial killer.

I pulled over, and the man strode quickly to the car, his head down as the rain pelted his body. As he opened the back door, my body tensed the way it did every time someone got into my car. With my left hand, I gripped the can of bug spray I held between my thighs every night, and I swung around to look at him.

He spoke quickly as he got inside. “Rideshare for Lotti?”

His voice was warm and deep, smooth like suede brushed the good way. That was the very first thing I felt, followed quickly by relief. The fact that he’d called the DAC—or knew the person who had—didn’t make him any less of a serial killer, but it certainly seemed like a start.

“Hey, yep,” I said, not letting go of the can but turning back and using my other hand to scroll through the app for his destination. “You’re going to 115 West Oak?” I asked, quickly dragging my finger across the map. Not on the way home, but not too much of a detour either. “Gold Coast?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

I snuck a peek in the rearview. He wasn’t looking at me. His head was turned to the side, and he stared out the window into the darkness.

“Cool,” I said and meant it. I liked the silence. I reached out and turned on the radio. A pop song filled the car, something bouncy and melodic, and I turned it down to a palatable level for the time of night. I pressed the gas and settled in. I could drop him off and make it home within thirty minutes. Maybe Keith would still be awake.