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I respond with:

All good. Explain when we see you.

Putting my arm around Daniela, I pull her in close.

She says, “I feel like I’m caught in a nightmare and I can’t wake myself up. What’s happening?”

“We’ll go someplace safe,” I whisper. “Where we can talk in private. Then I’ll tell you and Charlie everything.”

—

Charlie’s school is a sprawling brick complex that looks like a mental inst.i.tution crossed with a steampunk castle.

He’s sitting out on the front steps when we pull into the pickup lane, looking at his phone.

I tell Daniela to wait, and then I step out of the car and walk toward my son.

He stands, bewildered at my approach.

At my appearance.

I crash into him and squeeze him tight and say, “G.o.d, I’ve missed you,” before I even think to stop myself.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. “What’s with the car?”

“Come on, we have to go.”

“Where?”

But I just grab hold of his arm and pull him toward the open pa.s.senger door of the Escalade.

He climbs in first and I follow, shutting the door after us.

The driver glances back and asks with a heavy Russian accent, “Where to now?”

I thought about it on the drive over from the police station—someplace big and bustling, where even if one of the other Jasons followed us, we could easily blend into a crowd. Now I second-guess that choice. I think of three alternates—Lincoln Park Conservatory, the observation deck of the Willis Tower, and the Rosehill Cemetery. Rosehill feels like the safest option, the most unexpected. And I’m similarly drawn to Willis and Lincoln Park. So I go against my instinct and swing back to my first choice.

I tell him, “Water Tower Place.”

We ride in silence into the city.

As the buildings of downtown edge closer, Daniela’s cell phone vibrates.

She looks at the screen and then hands it over so I can see the text she just received.

It’s a 773 number I don’t recognize.

Daniela, it’s Jason. I’m texting you from a strange number, but I’ll explain everything when I see you. You’re in danger. You and Charlie both. Where are you? Please call me back ASAP. I love you so much.

Daniela looks scared out of her mind.

The air inside the car is p.r.i.c.kling with electricity.

Our driver turns onto Michigan Avenue, which is clogged with lunch-hour traffic.

The yellowed limestone of the Chicago Water Tower looms in the distance, dwarfed by the surrounding skysc.r.a.pers that line the expansive avenue of the Magnificent Mile.

The Escalade pulls to a stop at the main entrance, but I ask the driver to drop us underground instead.

From Chestnut Street, we descend into the darkness of a parking garage.

Four levels down, I tell him to stop at the next bank of elevators.

As far as I can see, no other cars have followed us in.

Our door slams echo off the concrete walls and columns as the SUV pulls away.

Water Tower Place is a vertical mall, with eight floors of boutique and luxury stores built around a chrome-and-gla.s.s atrium.

We ride up to the mezzanine level, which houses all the restaurants, and step off the gla.s.s elevator.

The snowy weather has brought the crowds indoors.

For the moment at least, I feel perfectly anonymous.