8
T
he next two days flew by as I squeezed in every bit of research I could between classes. I had sent Shamila the names of the men who had attacked Micah’s sister and killed Charlotte and the children, and she was looking up any information that might be found about Bud Granter, Merle Popson, and Stu Tomlinson in the Society’s records. Stephen was pulling police reports, and Javier, Marcie, Nicole, and I spent a good bit of Monday evening spinning through microfilm looking for their names.
Meanwhile, Mom and Isaiah were doing a little “recon.” Mom had used that word about twenty-five times before breakfast on Monday, and I had this vision of her and Isaiah in black, knit caps and black jumpsuits rappelling into the gas station to get intel. Every time I felt the fear prick the back of
