Mom sets out a plate of crackers and hummus on the coffee table – stress snacking is a Small family tradition – and settles into the armchair across from us with her own plate of food. "So what have you girls been up to, besides serving time for good behavior?"

  "School, mostly," I say, reaching for a cracker. "Finals are coming up."

  "I've been catching up on that new TV show about the haunted boarding school," Maggie adds. "The one everyone was talking about before we got grounded?"

  "Oh, 'Blackwood Academy'?" Mom perks up. "I just finished that! The twist in episode eight was incredible."

  And just like that, we're having a completely normal conversation about TV shows and actors and plot holes, like we're just regular people without secret identities or government conspiracies to worry about. It's nice, actually. Almost makes me forget about the white car outside or the ache in my ankle or the encrypted files we still can't crack.

  My phone chimes with an incoming video call just as Mom is explaining why the boarding school janitor is clearly the ghost of the founding headmaster or something. It's Jordan, right on cue.

  "Mind if I take this?" I ask, holding up my phone.

  Mom gestures for me to go ahead. "Make sure your volume's up so we can all say hi."

  I accept the call, and Jordan's face fills my screen. They're sitting at their desk in the MIT dorm room they'll be moving into next month – they've been sending us pictures of the setup for weeks now. A stack of textbooks teeters precariously in the background, and their hair is pulled back in what I've started thinking of as their "serious business" style. I didn't even know they had enough hair to pull back, but apparently they do, into the world's stubbiest, shittiest ponytail.

  "Hey, what's up?" I ask, angling the phone so Maggie can see too.

  "Not much progress, unfortunately." Jordan's frustration is clear even through the tiny phone speaker. "I've been running these files through every decryption algorithm I can find, and I'm still getting nowhere with most of them. The few I can access are just fragments – lab notes, some chemical formulas that might as well be hieroglyphics to me, and a bunch of reference numbers that don't mean anything without context."

  "We're still working on those warehouse files?" Mom asks from her armchair, somehow managing to make it sound like we're struggling with a school project rather than stolen data from a criminal organization.

  "Yes, Mrs. Small," Jordan says, their tone shifting slightly more formal. "The USB drives Sam – I mean, that we recovered – they're proving to be challenging."

  "After three weeks, I think we can officially say they're more than challenging," I sigh. "They're impossible."

  "Nothing's impossible," Jordan corrects automatically. "Just... extremely difficult with our current resources. I've got some specialized software running now to try breaking through another layer of encryption, but honestly? I'm starting to think we need someone with actual expertise in data forensics."

  Dad walks in from the kitchen, drying his hands on a dish towel. He's been home for about an hour now, and after greeting Maggie, he dove straight into making dinner – his usual way of unwinding after work. "Data forensics? Sounds serious."

  "Hi, Mr. Small," Jordan says, waving through the screen. "Yeah, it's pretty specialized stuff. I'm good with computers, but this is professional-grade encryption. Military or intelligence agency level."

  "I thought you were some kind of hacker prodigy," Maggie teases.

  Jordan rolls their eyes. "Media exaggeration. I'm a script kiddie with above-average pattern recognition, not Kevin Mitnick."

  "Who?" Maggie asks.

  "Famous hacker from the 90s," Dad and Jordan say simultaneously, then grin at each other.

  "The thing is," Jordan continues, "even if I could crack the encryption – which, to be clear, would take me years, if not decades, if not... never – I wouldn't necessarily understand what I'm looking at. The files I have been able to access are full of biochemical jargon and technical specifications that might as well be written in Klingon."

  "So we need someone who knows both computers and chemistry?" I ask, already trying to think of who in our extended network might fit that description.

  "Or better yet, someone who specializes in making sense of encrypted data and obscure technical documents," Jordan says. "Someone with training in investigative analysis."

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Mom sets down her plate, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. "You know, this reminds me of a problem we had at the library a few years ago. We received a donation of research materials from a retired professor, but all his notes used a personal classification system that made no sense to us. We couldn't even tell which subject areas they belonged to."

  "What did you do?" I ask, suddenly interested.

  "We brought in a specialist in archival organization. Someone trained to look for patterns, to understand how information fits together even when it's not labeled in conventional ways." She shrugs. "It's a specific skill set – the ability to make sense of information that's deliberately or accidentally obscured."

  Something clicks in my brain. "Like... a detective?"

  "Essentially, yes," Mom agrees. "Someone trained to see patterns where others just see random information."

  Jordan's face lights up on the screen. "That's actually not a bad idea. We don't need a hacker or a chemist – we need an investigator. Someone who can take fragmented, incomplete information and construct a coherent picture from it."

  "I'm not sure the police would be too happy to help with data from a, um, unauthorized operation," Dad points out diplomatically as he leans against the doorframe.

  "Not police," I say, my mind already racing ahead. "Private investigators. People who specialize in connecting dots without official channels."

  Maggie straightens beside me, clearly catching my drift. "You're thinking about—"

  "Maybe," I cut her off before she can say names. "It's worth considering, at least."

  Dad frowns slightly. "Private investigators cost money, Sam. And they tend to ask questions about where information comes from."

  "Not these ones," I say carefully. "They... owe us a favor."

  Mom and Dad exchange one of those parental telepathy looks that I've never quite been able to decipher.

  "I could connect with the computer remotely if needed," Jordan adds helpfully. "So Sam wouldn't even need to physically transport the drives anywhere."

  Dad pushes away from the doorframe and moves toward the window, peering out through a gap in the curtains. "Speaking of suspicious activities, that white car is still there."

  We all turn to look, conversation momentarily forgotten. The Honda hasn't moved, and the man inside appears to be talking on a phone now.

  "Has he been there this whole time?" Mom asks, joining Dad at the window.

  "At least since I got home," I confirm, the familiar prickle of unease returning to my spine.

  "Could be press," Dad suggests. "There was that article about the warehouse explosion in North Philly in the Inquirer this morning. Maybe they're fishing for connections."

  "Or government," Mom adds. "NSRA or FBI or whoever keeps tabs on these things."

  "Or Kingdom," I say quietly. "They haven't exactly been subtle about watching us before."

  Dad snorts. "Hard to be less subtle than sending a dinosaur to our house."

  I can't help but grimace. It's been almost two years, but the absurdity of Mr. T-Rex's attack on our home still hits me sometimes, at least when people remind me about it in the hallway. Starting with a bunch of gross hybrid animals and then ending with a Tyrannosaurus Rex leaves an impression. I wonder what the insurance adjusters had to think about it? I should see if I can ask them sometime.

  "Maybe I should go talk to him," Dad suggests. "Ask what he's doing."

  "No," Mom and I say simultaneously.

  "If it is Kingdom, confronting them won't help," I explain. "And if it's feds, they'll just deny everything and move the surveillance somewhere less obvious."

  "So we just... ignore them?" Maggie asks, sounding skeptical.

  "For now," Mom says firmly. "But I'm calling Diana at the precinct. She might be able to find out if there's any official surveillance authorized for this area."

  Dad keeps watching out the window. "He's leaving."

  We all crowd around to see the white Honda pulling away from the curb, merging smoothly into traffic and disappearing around the corner.

  "That was... oddly anticlimactic," I mutter.

  "Maybe he realized we spotted him," Maggie suggests.

  "Or his shift ended," Jordan adds through the phone, which I've been holding up so they can still be part of the conversation. "Most surveillance operations work in rotations."

  "The fact that we're having this conversation at all," Dad says, letting the curtain fall back into place, "is exactly why I'm concerned about you kids getting deeper into whatever this is."

  "We're already in it, Dad," I point out. "Has been for a while now. And all we're talking about is getting expert help interpreting information we already have."

  "Information you stole," he reminds me.

  "From a criminal organization manufacturing drug enhancers," I counter. "It's not like we robbed a library."

  Mom sighs. "Let's table the PI discussion for now. Dinner will be ready soon, and I believe you all have finals to study for? Jordan, would you like to join us? I think Ben made enough pasta to feed a small army."

  "Thanks for the offer, Mrs. Small, but I've got a video meeting with my MIT advisor in twenty minutes. Raincheck?"

  "Of course, honey. Take care."

  After we end the call, Dad returns to the kitchen to finish dinner preparations, and Mom heads upstairs to change out of her work clothes. Maggie and I are left alone in the living room, the conversation about PIs and encrypted data temporarily on hold but definitely not forgotten.

  "So," Maggie says quietly, "you're thinking Playback and Puppeteer, right? For the data analysis?"

  I nod. "They've been apprenticing with that detective agency for months now. If anyone in our circle has the skills to make sense of this stuff, it's them."

  "And your parents would actually be okay with that? Involving more people?"

  I consider this. "They're not thrilled about any of it, but I think they'd prefer a controlled handoff to professionals over us stumbling around blind. Plus, they're already connected to all this – it's not like we'd be dragging in civilians."

  Maggie looks toward the window where the car had been parked. "You really think that was Kingdom out there?"

  "I don't know," I admit. "Could be them, could be government, could be paranoia making us see patterns that aren't there. But after everything that's happened, I'd rather be paranoid than careless."

  The smell of garlic and tomato sauce wafts in from the kitchen, momentarily distracting us both. My stomach growls, reminding me that stress and paranoia are no match for teenage hunger.

  "Whatever it is," I say, reaching for another cracker, "we'll figure it out. We always do."