I turn to the desktop. The real research begins. My hands shake as I type Amy London’s name into the Internet toolbar and hit enter.
Katie sends another picture. A caricature of herself in a Sherlock Holmes cap and a tweed cloak fluttering behind her like a cape. Beneath her sketch, she’s included #elementary.
I should text her back, validating her impressive detective skills, telling her she’s the best friend in the world for what she’s done. Instead, Adam and I fix our concentration on our devices. I search media databases. Adam attacks social media networks. Neither of us says anything.
The first page of results proves worthless. None of the sites have anything to do with the Amy London I’m looking for.
Adam flips his iPad around. “Her social media activity looks like a short-lived phase in middle school.” She posted a few photos of her with a younger boy I’m guessing is her brother. “She has one group picture from seventh grade with fifteen nitwits we know. But the posts stop right after they started.”
“Surprising for anyone at this school.” Everyone here seems obsessed with social media.
Like Cullen and his 8,200 likes.
“Sure—except for you.”
I shrug my left shoulder, and think of Ryan. The way he shrugs his shoulder like it’s a signature move. I straighten my back, click images, and search again for Amy London. Halfway down the page, I find a poorly pixelated photo of a nine-year-old Amy London standing with a giant 54 hanging around her neck. Amy London’s hair is long and pulled back in two side braids. She looks so different I’m not sure if it’s even her.
“Give me your phone.” Adam hands it over, and I hold up Katie’s text next to the screen to see if the pictures are of the same person.
Adam peers at the comparison. “Braids are hideous, but it’s her. Not exactly Swarm material.”
I click on the image, and it takes me to someone’s personal blog. Adam and I both lean in to examine the picture. Next to her, Amy’s well-dressed father stands with his hand resting on her shoulder. The headline of the post reads “My Niece: Cook County Spelling Bee Finalist.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Adam says under his breath.
I skim the rest of the post by Amy’s aunt, who spends most of the time talking about her brother, Daniel London, being a proud parent and remarking that Amy’s spelling bee trophy, for being among the top ten, is among the family’s high accomplishments.
The tone of the post feels pathetic. She didn’t even win. “This is weird, right?”
Adam squints like it might clarify everything. “Google the dad.”
The search produces over three hundred thousand hits including images. I click on one of the links and begin reading.
“An architect?” I’m surprised. By the way he is dressed and posing for each of his pictures, I’d anticipated something more lucrative and smarmy.
Adam points to a list of awards on Daniel London’s company page. “The kind that wants everyone to know how important he is.”
“Did you turn in your passes to the front desk?”
A library assistant with heavily dyed dark hair and red lipstick peers down at us. I scan the library for the other library assistant, the one I first talked to when we came in. I want her to wave her friend off, but she’s nowhere to be seen. I can’t remember her name to even reference her. Just like this library assistant, they tend to blend in with every other nameless adult wandering the hallways of our schools. It would be so helpful if they wore nametags like waitresses at a diner.
“Mr. Mater gave us permission to be here.” I try to hold her eye contact so she doesn’t look at my screen and find our search has nothing to do with science.
“How long did he anticipate you’d be here?” Her voice is thick with skepticism.
I can’t help but stare at her scalp, which looks as if she poured dark brown hair dye all over her head and forgot to wash it afterward.
“She’s Amelia Finch. Maybe you’ve heard of her?” Adam answers with so much condescension, I’m sure she’s going to kick us out just for being rude. “She’s kind of had a rough week.”
“I have an injured foot,” I say before Adam can continue. “Mr. Mater said we could stay as long as I needed. You can call him if you’d like.” Mr. Mater said no such thing, but as my science teacher and advisor, he’s my safest bet if she calls my bluff and talks to him.
Nameless Library Assistant’s expression softens. She must recognize my name. I begin to wonder what kinds of emails the entire staff has been sent regarding how to handle me.
She offers a weak smile. “As long as someone knows you’re here,” she says before shuffling away.
Adam glares after her. “You realize she’s about to call the school social worker about the crazy girl hiding in the corner of the library.”
“Not the first time it’s happened.” I shrug and return to the screen, knowing our time is now limited. “There has to be something that gives us a clue to why his daughter is involved in the Swarm.” I scroll through the results on Daniel London, looking for any sign of a strained relationship. Maybe he kicked Amy out or left her mom to marry someone young and horrible, who locked Amy in her room every night. The spelling bee picture portrays them as a loving father-daughter team, but something must have happened for her to go rogue and join the Swarm. Unless, like Ryan, someone’s forcing her to participate.
“I give us five minutes, tops.” Adam directs my attention to the library assistant returning to the circulation desk. She whispers to her anonymous colleague, something about us that causes Library Assistant Number Two to glance my way with a look of horror and pity. One of them picks up the phone.
“Five minutes is generous,” I say.
I hit images as my final attempt to find something out about this family.
I scan through the hundreds of pictures—all of which portray Daniel London as a guy in love with himself.
Adam grabs my forearm and points to a tiny thumbnail image of Daniel London standing among a team of seven men. “Isn’t that . . .” Adam stops midsentence.
I click the link to enlarge it. “Bill Morrell.” The words come out as an exhale. Bill Morrell, the man my father was in the process of prosecuting when he was murdered. Bill Morrell, the man responsible for my father’s death. Bill Morrell, the man who committed suicide like a giant coward just after my father died, basically confirming his affiliation with the Death Mob and my father’s murder.
I click on the link. It takes us to an article from the Tribune dating back five years, about the ground breaking for Phase One of the Lakefront Project. The article celebrates the project as the savior of our city that would bring tourism and industry back into Chicago.
My hands shake as Adam leans over and hits command-print on the keyboard.
“Recognize anyone else?” Adams whispers, like we’re on the verge of uncovering the city’s most dangerous secret. Like who heads the Death Mob.
I’m filled with such an adrenaline rush I can barely read the names listed below the picture: Frank Davies, Maximilian Horowitz, Daniel London, Edward Cunnings, Bill Morrell, Clyde Jennings, and Harry Hewitt. All the men stand in suits in a kind of semicircle. They have the same smile spread across their faces and seem to share in some kind of comradery.
I don’t know any of them. I shake my head before looking up at the circulation desk. Both library assistants are absorbed with their computers. Before a social worker or principal comes to whisk me away to a private room where I can discuss my feelings on the tragedies of my life, I need to at least figure out who the rest of these men are.
“You take the first three.” My words are breathy, barely audible, but Adam picks up on it.
“What are we looking for?”
“I don’t know.” And I don’t. I wish I had at least four more hours to research each of these men.
“Frank Davies,” Adam says as he skims through his findings on the iPad, “is the general superintendent an
d CEO of the Chicago Park District.”
I blink, unable to add it all up.
“He had”—he pauses to read—“a scandalous divorce from a very wealthy woman before remarrying someone half his age—a few years older than his daughter, who looks our age.”
“Edward Cunnings,” I say, scrolling through the links that come up when I google him. “Owns a lumber company in the burbs.” I click the first link and keep skimming. “He worked on the first eighteen homes to line Lake Michigan in Phase One of the project.” I return to the search results and click on the fourth link down. “One of his sons committed suicide two years ago.”
I read more closely. Jamie Cunnings was sixteen and went to a nearby private school. From his picture, he looks handsome—the kind of kid who could get away with anything based only on his looks. He doesn’t look the type to commit suicide. Of course, they never do.
Just as I’m about to search my next guy, I see Mr. Mater walk into the library.
I nudge Adam, who sits up straighter in his chair.
I’m not ready to stop—not yet. My eyes jump to the last two faces in the picture like I’m about to lose them forever. Something about the last guy looks familiar, though I can’t place it. I type in Harry Hewitt and hit search, certain I’m teetering on the cusp of something big.
According to the top result, Harry Hewitt started his construction company just six years back. I click on the link to his company and see three of the Lakefront mansions plastered on the front page.
Mr. Mater starts talking to both library assistants, who once again flash me a look of pity.
I click on the Meet the Team link at the top of the site. The second the page pops up, a tight, little gasp escapes me. Harry Hewitt has a professionally photographed picture of his entire family, and they are beautiful, stunning even—especially their son, Ryan.
My head spins, making me so dizzy I can’t think. Ryan’s dad. He’s involved. Is that why Ryan’s forced to participate? Is that why my dad approached him? I hit print and log off the computer just as Mr. Mater begins walking toward me.
Adam slides around his chair. “I’ll get our stuff from the printer,” he says, abandoning me.
I grab my bag and try to stand, as if I’d been planning to leave the entire time.
Mr. Mater sticks his hands into his pockets. He tilts his head to one side. “I got a call that you and Adam Cohen have been here for a few periods.”
I refuse to look at him. Instead, I watch Adam taking his time over at the printing station. It’s clear he’s ditched me during this conversation with Mr. Mater, likely so I can play up the woe-is-me angle. But for whatever reason, it’s a bit harder to do with Mr. Mater.
“I hurt my foot last night. Walking on it really hurts.” I look him in the eye for as long as I can before my gaze breaks away. “It’s not like I can concentrate in any of my classes.”
I slide my backpack over my shoulders and straighten it on my back.
Mr. Mater’s eyebrows purse. “Lia, I don’t mind writing you a pass if you need it, but I’d feel better if we all knew where you were while you’re here at school.”
I look at the tables of scattered students and the rows of multicolored books—anywhere but at Mr. Mater.
When I don’t respond, he fills the awkward silence. “I can write you a pass to see the social worker if you want.”
“No.” My answer is curt.
“I got you in at twelve thirty, but you need to leave now,” Adam calls out across the library like he’s in a giant rush. “Here are your intake forms. The secretaries get all fussy if you don’t bring them.” He throws papers from his dad’s practice down on the table, ignoring Mr. Mater and the serious conversation he’s trying to have with me. I try not to look confused.
“Hey, Mr. Mater,” Adam says as he grabs my arm like he’s helping me walk.
I grab the stack, noticing the picture of Ryan poking out from the bottom.
“My dad generously squeezed Lia in to take a look at her foot.”
“What happened to your foot?” Mr. Mater asks with doubt in his voice.
Adam answers for me. “Giant gash. She needs stitches. Crazy week for her, right?” I wonder if Mr. Mater recognizes Adam’s condescending tone or that he’s making it up as he goes. The wound has closed. I don’t need a doctor.
Mr. Mater rocks back and forth on his heels. “Sounds rough.”
“Luckily, she’s well connected to a nationally recognized plastic surgeon.” Adam flashes a giant fake grin as I wonder if people actually hire plastic surgeons to stitch up a cut on the bottom of a foot.
“Good thing.”
Mr. Mater is just going along with it at this point.
As Adam leads me out of the library, I accentuate my limp as if it might sell the story.
“See you later, Mr. Mater!” Adam says, laughing at his own rhyme. I follow Adam through the turnstile and out of the library, clutching the printouts of the Lakefront team and of Ryan’s family like my life depends on it.
CHAPTER 19
When Adam and I walk into the lunchroom, we’re assaulted by the smell of grease and cooked vegetables. We snake our way toward our corner table with our packed lunches, where I have every intention of spending the period on Adam’s iPad. But as we get closer, Cullen Henking approaches Katie from the other side of cafeteria. Her bottom lip curls into her mouth as she sketches in her notebook. He leans over the table and says something to her. Her body turns rigid. She glares at him.
Adam grabs my forearm. “Go home. I’ll rescue Katie.”
I open my mouth to protest as Cullen flashes his one-dimpled smile and winks at me.
“You don’t need this,” Adam says, lifting a brow. “And I happen to relish every chance I get to remind him of his deficiencies.”
I want to hide in our corner like I usually do and bury myself in research. One of the men in that picture heads the Death Mob. I know it, and I need to figure out who. I owe it to Dopney and my dad and every other dead victim.
Adam adjusts his black-rimmed glasses. “Go,” he says, leaving me behind.
If I ditch, I can find a computer. I can avoid Cullen and reporters and anyone else who wants something from me. Hoping Katie will forgive me for abandoning her, I turn and leave.
As I navigate the halls, no one stops me on my way or asks where I’m going. The corridor to the front doors is nearly empty. My shoulders prickle with expectation, waiting for a hand to grab me. Reroute me back to lunch. I glance behind, looking for a teacher or vice principal. When I turn back around, a girl in an army-green jacket walks out of the bathroom and into the main lobby thirty yards ahead.
Amy London glances up. She freezes at the same moment I halt.
We stare at each other. Neither of us dares move.
The air around us stops stirring like we’ve entered some giant vacuum. Amy’s jaw hangs slack. I’ve caught her in the middle of something. But what? How is it possible she’s suddenly the only thing blocking my getaway? This can’t be coincidence. But the way her hands dangle limp at her sides, she looks as shocked and terrified as I feel.
I don’t know what to do. Turn and run? Walk past her, pretending she’s another student at this school, not someone I saw in the Swarm at the pier? It’s too late for that.
Amy tugs the bottom corners of her jacket and steps toward me. Like she’s approaching me. Like she’s going to say something. Like she isn’t my enemy, about to knife me as I pass.
Steeling myself, I take three steps toward her before a blurry streak of fiery red bursts into the lobby from the hallway on the right, barrels into Amy London, and shoves her into the girls’ bathroom, out of my sight.
Amy grunts from inside as she thuds against the tile barrier. I flinch.
Copperhead. The flash of red is Copperhead. From the pier. I’m sure of it.
Where did she come from? And what is she doing to Amy? Aren’t they on the same side?
I need to run. Leave. Amy London
might not be here to kill me, but is Copperhead?
My heart thrashes against my ribs. It echoes in my temples.
Light streams in from the front doors just past the girls’ bathroom like a beacon pulling me toward it.
I shuffle, then pick up speed as I near the girls’ bathroom. I can’t help but look inside. The tile barrier blocks everything, but I hear whimpering. Crying. “I wasn’t going to say anything,” a girl pleads.
A stall door bangs as something or someone crashes into it.
“Please don’t,” the voice begs—for mercy, or life, I don’t wait to find out. I take off running.
Bursting through the front doors, I hobble on my burning foot down the concrete stairs, where another student waits, presumably for his ride. The rest of our school’s courtyard is empty. If Copperhead chases after me, at least there’s one witness.
I take deep breaths, trying to slow my pulse. Not look so conspicuous. I’m halfway down the school’s wide semicircle of steps leading to the sidewalk when the guy at the bottom, who I suddenly notice wears a hooded sweatshirt beneath a jean jacket and some kind of baseball hat, tucks his cell away like I’ve caught him doing something. He starts to glance at me. Then stops. Instead, he seems to regard me out of the corner of his eye, but for whatever reason, he avoids turning around.
Tiny strands of hair bristle at the nape of my neck.
I stare at the back of this kid’s head as if I can see into his thoughts. Other than a creepy spider tattoo behind his right ear, nothing about him seems out of the ordinary. He’s just a kid who goes to my school, waiting for his ride.
A gust of wind blows sideways along the school’s brick façade. It whips my stringy blonde hair across my face and creates a dull hum in the air.
I’m being paranoid. Not every sketchy person I come across is in the Swarm. And I can’t exactly go back inside to Copperhead and whatever she’s doing to Amy London.
Rolling my shoulders back, I continue down the stairs, determined to walk two blocks to Division, where I can catch a cab. Get home. Lock my doors. Hide in bed beneath my comforter for the rest of my life.
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