Adam scrolls through Dopney’s online picture galleries, many of which showcase pictures of rare birds he’d come across. “The guy’s a homebody. Other than his two trips to Chicago, he’s completely boring—except for his bird fascination.” He flips his iPad so I can see the screen. “Look at this one,” he says, referencing a bird with a crazy wingspan about to take flight.

Adam’s phone buzzes again. I glance over, already prepared to dismiss it when I see a picture of Cropped Hair Girl—the actual one I’m looking for—pulling a book out of her locker. I jump in my chair and grab for the phone, but Adam beats me to it.

YES, he writes. Get her name.

How??

My body shakes with anticipation.

Adam stares at the picture. Never mind.

“What are you doing?”

Adam swipes at his device. The school’s homepage. The staff intranet. He keys in a password and continues clicking. “For the record, she’s wearing an army-green jacket, not an army jacket.”

He hits the link: Locker assignments.

“How are you doing this?”

Adam looks at me through his designer glasses. “Mrs. Greenberg’s an idiot. Her password is one, two, three, four, five. What’s the locker number?”

I grab Adam’s phone and zoom in on the number above the locker Cropped Hair Girl is rummaging through. “Two, five, one, zero.”

Adam smirks like he just did something sinister. “Amy London. Junior.”

I turn to the desktop. The real research begins. My hands shake as I type Amy London’s name into the Internet toolbar and hit enter.

Katie sends another picture. A caricature of herself in a Sherlock Holmes cap and a tweed cloak fluttering behind her like a cape. Beneath her sketch, she’s included #elementary.

I should text her back, validating her impressive detective skills, telling her she’s the best friend in the world for what she’s done. Instead, Adam and I fix our concentration on our devices. I search media databases. Adam attacks social media networks. Neither of us says anything.

The first page of results proves worthless. None of the sites have anything to do with the Amy London I’m looking for.

Adam flips his iPad around. “Her social media activity looks like a short-lived phase in middle school.” She posted a few photos of her with a younger boy I’m guessing is her brother. “She has one group picture from seventh grade with fifteen nitwits we know. But the posts stop right after they started.”

“Surprising for anyone at this school.” Everyone here seems obsessed with social media.

Like Cullen and his 8,200 likes.

“Sure—except for you.”