Adam was right. News feeds have been speculating all day about whether I knew about the attack. As if that’s more important than the Swarm’s resurgence. They want to discredit me like they did my dad, dissect me until there’s nothing left, without caring what their implications could mean for me.

The bell rings. Chairs and desks screech across the floor as everyone scrambles. Mr. Mater shouts over the chaos—something about Science Olympiad—but no one listens.

I don’t move.

The news teams outside inch toward the front door. I’d love to think they’re looking for Cullen, someone who relishes his media attention. But they’re not.

Kids spill into the courtyard two stories below. Hundreds of teenagers dressed in hoodies, sunglasses, and scarves start filling the space until the courtyard itself becomes a patchwork of unidentifiable milling high school students. The scene is too familiar, the suddenness too reminiscent of yesterday.

Any one of them down there might be a part of the Swarm. They survive on their ability to remain concealed, anonymous. They thrive on people’s fear that they could be anyone, anywhere. Because of it, they’re never caught. My classmates flood the lawn, and my insides twist like the tight coil of a spring. One—or more—of my classmates buzzing below might have been there Saturday. Or worse. They might have been there the day my dad was murdered.

I grip the edge of my desk. I should look away. Escape out back. But I’m locked in place. Any second, little blue orbs might perforate the brimming mass. Starting the attack. Denoting someone’s murder.

And then suddenly, I see him. Broad shoulders. Hooded sweatshirt. The gray-eyed attacker. His back is to me, but I’m sure it’s him. Even from where I sit, immobilized in my desk, I recognize his shape. He leans against the school’s stairs, his head bent, shoulders hunched, watching people leave, waiting for me.

I can’t move. Can’t breathe.

I shut my eyes. Picture Hana. The purple sky.

My throat clenches, restricting the thickening air. I force an inhale, tighten my focus: the black rock beach. Salt water foams and swirls around boulders. Swishing. Fizzing.

Mr. Mater startles me. “Lia?”

It takes several moments to register his presence. He stands behind his desk, waiting for my answer as I remind myself I’m still in his classroom.

I spin back toward the window. By the time I look outside, the boy with the hood is gone. As if he’d never been there.

“Everything okay?” Mr. Mater asks.

I stand—an awkward, jerky motion—and stack my books. “Yeah, I was just . . .”

Momentarily hallucinating? Flipping out because I watched someone practically murdered three days ago? Wondering where and when someone’s going to kill me? There is no way for me to finish the sentence.