“Here’s what I’m proposing. I don’t know if you’ve looked outside yet, but there’s a camera crew just past those doors dying for an exclusive. I’m heading out to give them a few words. Wanna join me?”

Again, the smile.

Behind me, no one moves. I imagine five hundred pairs of eyes boring into the back of my head, necks craning for a better look to watch the spectacle in the corner of the cafeteria. His request is so absurd. Surely there are a million different comebacks I can sling at him, and yet I can’t think of anything to say.

Not a single word.

“Look, I get that Saturday sucked for you, but you’re missing out on a prime marketing opportunity. I, for example, am about to go out there and take advantage of an otherwise unfortunate situation.”

“I’d rather stab myself in the eye.”

Cullen chuckles like I’ve said something charming. He turns to Adam. “Better keep that knife away from her.” He brushes the underside of my chin with his index finger.

I jerk my head away.

“If you need me, you know where to find me.”

Adam chokes on his Diet Coke, nearly spitting it out across the table.

I ball my hands into little white fists. Of course he’d be all about the cameras. No doubt it’s why he’s wearing another collared shirt to school today.

Adam shouts after Cullen, now swaggering out of the cafeteria. “We’ll keep our fingers crossed. Hopefully your performance issue that night was just a one-time thing!”

I’d laugh if I weren’t so irritated. And with my head pounding, I can barely think. I would love nothing more than to stomp off and spend the rest of lunch locked in some bathroom stall.

But I need Adam’s help.

I’m the closest I’ve ever been to proving the attacks are organized and the victims targeted. If I can do that, then hopefully someone competent can figure out who’s behind them. I just need to make sure my other lead is legit before I hand it over.

Adam cuts a bite of pizza and stabs it with his fork.

I lean in. “Your program found it.”

Adam drops his fork and knife. “Seriously?”

“What program?” Katie asks.

“The Search Alligator.”

“You make it sound like kids’ play,” Adam says. He never approved of the nickname I gave it. “It’s a search aggregator,” he tells Katie, trying to sound annoyed, but his eyes ignite. “You’re still running it?”

I pull a piece of paper out of my back pocket.

“The Swarm uses Twitter.”

He reaches for the note I’ve pushed toward him. “It’s so old school.”

Scrawled in my own handwriting is the tweet I’d discovered: #13.9.1.1300.41.891466N.87.599709W

I suppress my smile. Despite his lecture, Adam shows interest like he does with any challenge.