I skim through the hits, trying to ignore Steven Finch every time I see the name, and find Morrell’s obituary, featuring a black-and-white picture of him in tweed. Beneath it, a paragraph about how he was this admirable, upstanding citizen, which I still find hard to believe. I scan it, searching for names of the people who survived him. Sure enough, Morrell had two daughters. At the time of his death, one was twenty-two. The other was seventeen. They lived in Kenilworth, attended New Trier High School.

I google Kellee Morrell, the seventeen-year-old. She would have been the one the Swarm targeted. When I can’t find anything fast enough, I move on to social network sites. Every ten seconds or so, I scan the store, checking to make sure no one is coming. Six minutes pass. Another three. Until finally I find a Kellee Morrell who went to New Trier, now attends Yale, and is apparently on their diving team.

I scroll through her pictures. She’s won all kinds of awards for diving. Spends a lot of time with her mom and her sister. In every picture, she has this strained, haunted expression. Her lips have a slight curve to them—a sad attempt for a smile. And she wears pearls. A lot. Not exactly Swarm material.

The longer I stare at her picture, the more convinced I become of her story: the Swarm approached her, she refused to be blackmailed, and they framed and killed Morrell because of it. It’s exactly what they threatened would happen to Ryan’s parents if he didn’t comply. My theory becomes so vibrant and plausible in my head, I grow giddy until I realize there’s no way to prove it. Kellee is at Yale. I can’t even count how many states away that is. Reaching out through social media is not an option. She’s a dead end.

I roll my wrists and move on: Maximilian Horowitz, Clyde Jennings, and Frank Davies—the last three men from the picture. Sure enough, all three of them have a son or daughter in high school. The teens’ online presence is more limited than Kellee’s, but each of them looks pained in their pictures. Withdrawn. Because like Kellee, they’ve been blackmailed and forced to participate in murdering people?

I scratch their names down on a Post-it. Adam could produce their home addresses and the schools they attend within the hour. The second I think it, his familiar scent of cedar and grapefruit swirls around me. I think of the way Adam hugged me, the way his lean arms wrapped around me right before . . . I close my eyes and breathe. Deeply. Adam laughs in his self-assured, uninhibited way. The sound is so clear, like he’s standing beside me, helping me. Still.