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.