“I’m working on it.” The picture of Ryan’s dad with Bill Morrell and the others is folded in the front pocket of my backpack. Even though I’m sure one of them heads the Death Mob, showing her would incriminate Ryan. I’m not sure if she realizes he’s part of the Swarm or not, but I need to find out more before I hand over this piece of information.

Emi purses her lips together as if she’s about to protest. Instead she nods her head. “Let me know what you find out.”

With so much laid out in front of us, I start to second-guess myself. Maybe it’s a trap. Maybe she’s a part of the Death Mob. She wants to see what I know. Why didn’t I consider this before I so willingly shared everything with the first person who showed interest?

“Okay then,” Emi says. She starts walking down my porch stairs, her head bent in concentration.

Anxiety stirs in my chest, tightening it. She hasn’t shared anything with me. I swing my bag around and begin rummaging for my inhaler.

“Lia . . .” Emi stops and turns. “I know you’re stubborn, but lay low.” There’s sincerity in her voice. When I glance up, she’s looking at me like she cares about what might happen. “Let me do the digging. I’ll come back to share it with you. I promise.”

She straightens her shirt and follows our stone path toward my back gate, her ridiculously high heels causing her ankles to wobble.

I want to believe her. But she is, after all, Emi Vega.

Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

Sitting on my mom’s white linen couch, I pick at a spot on the arm of the sofa where the fabric has pilled. Lip Spikes or Copperhead or Spider Tattoo may or may not be outside watching me. Stalking me. Waiting to kill me. And I’m starting not to care.

Meanwhile, I’ve aligned myself with a guy from the Swarm, the mayor’s self-absorbed son, and a reporter. Not just any reporter—Emi Vega. I can’t help but wonder if I’m caught in some sick and twisted Alice in Wonderland dream where my world has turned upside down and nothing is as it seems.

Upstairs, the floorboards creak with each step my mom takes. Her walk is methodic as she follows her nighttime routine. Work clothes off. Loungewear on. It never wavers.

I twist the threads between my thumb and index finger, listening for any sign she’s coming back downstairs, even though I know she won’t. Dinner was uncomfortable. We sat on opposite ends of the table in awkward silence, acting as if my dad’s murderers hadn’t resurfaced and neither of us was struggling to cope.

At one point I said, “The TV cabinet looks nice.” The doors had been fixed some time during the day.