I nodded, tears beginning to well again. Say what you wanted about my father, but I loved this man.

"Now that said, while I'm not going to parade you through a bureau office, we still need an official interview for the record." He put a gnarly hand on my knee. "So why don't you tell me what happened in your own words?"

My grandfather, the cop.

I gave him the entire tale, from my walk across campus to my conversation with Ethan, Luc, and Malik, including their Rogue-vampire hypothesis. The general public may not know about the Rogues' existence, but I wasn't about to hide that fact from my grandfather. When I was done, he asked thoughtful questions - essentially walking me through the entire few days again, but this time pulling out details Ethan, Luc, and Malik hadn't discussed, like the fact that the attacker bailed upon seeing Ethan, apparently aware of who he was and unwilling to risk a one-on-one confrontation. When we'd walked through the events twice, he sat back in his recliner and scratched what little hair remained on the perimeter of his head. For all that his mind was impeccably sharp, he looked so much the grandpa - tucked-in flannel shirt, twill trousers, comfortable thick-soled shoes, gleaming pate.

He sat forward again, elbows on his knees. "So the Cadogan folks have concluded that Porter's death is connected to your attack?"

"I think they're willing to consider it a possibility."

After nodding thoughtfully, Grandpa rose and disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned, there was a manila folder in his hand. He sat down again and opened it, then flipped through some documents. "Twenty-seven-year-old white female. College educated. Brunette. Blue eyes. Slim build. She was attacked just after dusk, walking her dog through Grant Park. Her blood was drained, and she was left for dead." His pale blue eyes, which matched mine in color, watched me intently. "There are undeniable similarities."

I nodded, not thrilled that Grandpa agreed with Ethan's conclusion. But what was worse, the first vampire probably had meant to kill me. Which meant I was supposed to be his second victim and would have been - death by exsanguination in the middle of the quad - had Ethan not come along.

I really did owe Ethan for saving my life.

And I really didn't want to owe Ethan anything.

My grandfather reached out and patted my knee with a large callused hand. "I'd really like to know what you're thinking right now."

I frowned and picked a fingernail against the nubby fabric of the couch. "I'm alive. And I really do have Ethan Sullivan to thank for it, which is . . . disturbing." I looked up at my grandfather. "Someone was gunning for me. Because I look like Jennifer Porter? If so, why send the brick through my window? This guy wanted me dead, maybe for himself, maybe on someone else's behalf. And he's still out there." I shook my head. "Vampires coming out of the closet was bad enough. The city is not going to be prepared for this."

Grandpa patted my hand again, then rose from his chair and grabbed a jacket that lay across its arm. "Merit, let's go for a drive."

My grandfather, the man who cared for me for much of my childhood, announced to the family four years ago, following the death of my grandmother, that he was taking partial retirement. He told my sneering father that he was off the streets and would instead man a desk in the CPD's Detective Division, helping the active detectives with unsolved homicides.

But as we drove south in his gigantic Oldsmobile - think red velveteen upholstery - he confessed that he hadn't exactly told us the truth about his role with the CPD. He was still working for the city of Chicago, but in a wholly different capacity.