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.