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.