But it is there now.

I tell myself it means nothing.

But when I check an hour later, the car is still there, and this time the driver’s-side window is lowered an inch. Maybe two.

Even though I have vowed not to think about the gang again, the woman’s warning about my having been followed to meet her replays in my mind. I find myself going downstairs to the living room to get a better look at the car. Slowly, I walk to the edge of the front window, careful not to rustle the curtains.

I’m just trying to prove the woman wrong once and for all, I tell myself as I peer out the edge of the window. There’s no way anyone was following me then and no way anyone is just sitting in that car now.

I spot a pair of eyes staring out the lowered window. There’s someone in that car.

When the man in the driver’s seat shifts, I can see another shadow behind him.

My heart trips. There is more than one person parked in the blue car. The car has been there for over an hour with the engine off.

That’s . . . really strange, I think as the driver’s eyes flit along the street before returning to the one house he seems to be the most interested in watching.

Mine.

Six

My heart beats loud in my ears as I jerk back from the window.

This is stupid, I tell myself. I’m overreacting. After everything that has happened today, it’s no wonder I’m spooked. The alarm . . . the police . . . Rose’s dad telling me about the gang . . . it’s enough to spook anyone.

I glance out the window again. The car is still there. The men are still inside. The engine is quiet, and the men are very definitely watching my house. Who are they and how did the woman know about them?

Pushing down the fear that has burrowed deep inside my stomach, I hurry upstairs and grab my tablet. I cast looks out the window to make sure the car is still there as I pull up Mr. Webster’s office number at City Hall. Then I dial, hoping he’s still at work.

It takes ten minutes to convince the woman who answers the phone that I know Mr. Webster and that he told me to call him. Finally she puts me on hold. I pace the room and catch a glimpse of a police car cruising down the street. The Chicago Police Department vehicle slows and then stops a few feet in front of the car of the men who have been watching me. I hold my breath as I watch the uniformed police officer climb out of his car. The driver’s-side door to the car that’s been watching my house opens and a man in brown slacks, a white shirt, and a navy-blue jacket gets out. Sweat glistens off the top of his hairless head as he stands with his hand on the top of the car door and nods at the officer who approaches.