After my mom kicked Ryan out, I thought he’d show up the next night, at least give an explanation for my mom’s accusation. But he didn’t. For several days, I watched for signs of him following me, but he wasn’t around. And the longer he stayed away, the more I realized how easy I made it for him to lie about everything. What’s sad is that I’d considered him an ally in a world where people want to use me or kill me instead of realizing the alternative: Ryan’s involvement with my dad got him killed.

“If you’d rather talk chemical equations, we can, but then you’ll never find out what I’ve discovered while doing a little of my own research.”

I look up from my iPad. My heart skips. Adam stares at his own tablet with a little grin.

“Shall I go on then?”

I should chastise him for putting himself at risk and refuse to talk about any leads with him. Even I’ve laid off researching anything these last few weeks. Aside from checking my follower status a few times, which continues to grow without me doing anything to encourage it, I’ve stayed off the Internet entirely. I open my mouth to protest, but Adam holds up his index finger, cutting me off.

“Before you pretend to prioritize my safety, let me remind you the Benny the Bull hacker has yet to be caught.”

Freshman year, Adam hacked the United Center’s scoreboard. Every time George Hutchinson went to a Bulls game with his family, the scoreboard displayed a series of anti-bullying messages to George from Benny the Bull among the happy birthday shout-outs. Adam hacked it at least a dozen times—George’s family had season tickets. It was well deserved. George threw Asian slurs at Katie for months. Benny the Bull insured that George left Katie alone.

My entire body thrums with anticipation. “That’s hardly the same thing.”

“Sure it is. Everything I do is impressively rerouted through so many encrypted layers, it’s exciting.”

“That means nothing to me.”

Adam smirks. “My digital tracks are indecipherable. That’s all you need to know. Keep in mind I found that Twitter IP address for you. These people aren’t that good.”

A tiny, nagging voice of reason warns me not to encourage him. He shouldn’t be investigating the Swarm. It’s too dangerous. But I’m already hanging on his every word. And he knows it.

“As I was saying,” Adam continues, “I looked into who’s made the most profit from the Lakefront Project. Wasn’t easy.”

I grab my pendant and twist it around my finger.

“Interestingly enough, your stalker friend’s dad made several million along with all the other men in that photo. Just Phase One of the project brought in close to five hundred million in revenue.”