Page 1

Chapter 1

Brioni

It’s well past dark, and the church is deserted. The harsh basement lighting shows off every speck of glitter in the youth group room’s carpet. I’ve vacuumed three times now, and there’s still more to go, an uphill battle of a task.

But the kids are worth it.

We don’t do crafts at every Friday night session, but tonight we made construction paper angels. It was Little Seamus who’d asked to use glitter. He hasn’t spoken in so long that his voice came out in a whisper. I couldn’t tell him no.

I do my best not to think of him as Poor Little Seamus these days. Eight years old, and his da died in a car crash last month. He’s been silent in youth group ever since. As the instructor, I do the best I can to keep an eye on him without singling him out.

I keep my eye on his mam too. She’s a strong, upright woman, her curled hair always beneath a handkerchief. From what I can tell, she’s good at putting on a brave face for her son. Even if it’s a false face, it may be enough.

I hope she’ll be able to weather her grief with fortitude, if not for her own sake, then for Seamus’s. If she falters, I’ll be there, along with the other members of our South Side community, but I worry it may not be enough.

Maybe it’ll be different for Seamus if his mother withdraws, if she retreats inside herself. I was fifteen when my da died of a heart attack, when my mam stopped being my mam.

I was sixteen when she left for good.

Little Seamus is only in second grade, but young children are resilient in a way teenagers are not. And even though it feels awful to think it, he’s a boy. He may not end up vulnerable the way I did, desperate and gullible, eagerly falling for a guy who seemed safe and steady.

Whenever I think of my ex-boyfriend Harrison, my scalp prickles in warning.

I tuck the vacuum into the closet, passing beneath the basement window.

A flash of something pale appears outside.

I jolt in panic, but then it’s gone. With every follicle on my head tingling, I tell myself I’m being paranoid. Harrison moved to Silicon Valley. He’s thousands of miles away, and he can’t hurt me here.

But he’s stalked me before.

I push away the thought as I pull on my coat and scarf. When I check my phone, my blood goes cold.

The screen is frozen. It’s all black with a single line of white text.

Be careful out there.

Hands shaking, I drop my phone onto one of the desks. Beneath the warning, a smile appears, a slow curve from left to right. There’s no outline of a face, no eyes or anything emoji-like. Just a sinister curve that’s undoubtedly a grin.

I swallow hard. This isn’t the first time my phone’s been hacked like this. Since I broke up with Harrison a few weeks ago, I’ve received a dozen similar messages, all ominous versions of: watch out. Getting a new phone did nothing but deplete my bank account. The messages kept overriding my screen, and there’s only one way to get rid of them.

Holding my breath, I trace the smile’s curve from left to right.

The message disappears, and I exhale. But even though my phone’s back to normal, I’m far from reassured. These messages always appear right as I’m walking out the door. Whether I’m leaving my house or work or church doesn’t matter. And though I typically stick to my schedule, I’m never here this late. Even if Harrison knows my routine and he’s tracking my phone’s location, there’s no way he could know that I’m about to leave, that I’ve pulled on my coat.

Unless he’s watching me right now.

That flash of something pale in the window.

I try to shake off my paranoia. It’s the season getting to me, that’s all. In the Chicago autumn, the days are growing darker, the nights stretching longer. And with the shedding trees turning barren, nature itself has shifted from idyllic to spooky.

And I’m letting it disturb me more than I should.

Even so, I slip my pepper spray into my coat’s outer pocket. I’m less than a mile from my house. I haven’t gone for a run since our breakup, but I know I’m still faster than Harrison. His specialty is tech, and my forte is speed. Whether or not my fear is founded, I can make it.

I lock up the church and walk briskly through the seemingly deserted neighborhood. This is O’Sullivan-controlled territory, I remind myself. My next-door neighbors, my second family, run this part of town. Their influence protects civilians like me. Even though I don’t like to think about that side of their business, their activities have all but eliminated the area’s petty crime.

I pull my scarf tighter against the cold night. Thanks to the O’Sullivans’ donations to South Side infrastructure, the streets are decently lit. Frequent cones of yellow-orange light feel like safe havens along the sidewalks. But in my pocket, I keep my finger on the trigger of my pepper spray.