"I have all the evidence I need," I say, munching around the edges of my granola bar, squinting into the sunlight as Jimmy leans away from me, devouring my sandwich. I'm careful to stare at the floor, though. The disgusting baggie of rotting revoltingness I found squashed into the bottom of my locker after first period makes me nervous. I can't let Tom think I'm on to him. "I'm just not sure what to do with it."
Jimmy's thumb keys his iPod to a new song and the shrieking words of a fresh thrash tune reach me as a faint squeal.
"You're right," I say, setting down my lunch and scratching my cheek. "All I have is evidence against innocent people carrying out his orders. I don't have anything really tying Tom to the images. Just Donnelly." It would be great to bring Donnelly down, though. I
