57

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The taxi’s wheels churn through the half-melted slush, gray and gritty, as it pulls to the curb. The cold bites through my jacket, sharp as my teeth, as I step out onto the icy sidewalk. Snow, dirty from suburban tires and reckless drivers speeding through school zones, piles against the police tape ahead, like cotton batting pulled from a mattress and trampled underfoot.

Hatboro-Horsham’s NSRA office looms, squat and unassuming, yet today it’s the epicenter of a hundred thousand eager eyes, all trying to get in on the latest national scandal – Miasma. I can feel the weight of the scene settling over me, like a wet blanket wrapped around my throat like a noose. We’re dressed in our best attempt at “student reporter” – Jordan’s idea of blending in – but the camera hanging from my neck feels more like a neon sign that screams ‘poser’ than a press badge.

I shove my hands into my pockets, trying to look casual, but they find only lint and the frigid touch of nervous sweat. My breath fogs up in front of me, each exhalation a ghostly whisper that says, ‘you shouldn’t be here.’ But we have to be. This was my plan, after all. I just…

Jordan’s walking ahead, shoulders squared, looking every bit the leader I’m not being right now. They’re the picture of defiant confidence, but I know them well enough to see the tightness in their jaw. They’re worried, and that amps up my own anxiety. I can hear my own heartbeat, and I don’t exactly like it. I don’t like feeling it in my ears.

Next to me, Spinelli’s shuffling his feet, trying to kick away the muck that clings to his shoes. “Gross,” he mumbles, and I almost smile. Almost. If the situation weren’t so grim, I’d find more humor in his childlike disgust at the sludge painting the edges of his sneakers.

We pass a cop car, the blue and red lights casting surreal shadows on the snow, painting it in colors of emergency. My fingers itch to snap a photo, but that’s not why we’re here. I’m looking for something else – a clue, a lead, something that says someone else was here. Something that proves Miasma’s innocence.

I remember myself, then, and my cover. I pull my camera up and snap a picture. No flash.

The NSRA office itself stands behind the tape, windows gazing out like empty eyes. The flags on top flap in the biting wind, snapping, chirping like angry birds. An incredibly annoying sound. The doors are closed, but the chaos from earlier has left its marks – a broken window on the second floor, the blinds hanging loose and limp, clattering against the wall.

“Sam, keep up,” Jordan hisses over their shoulder, and I realize I’ve stopped walking. I hustle to close the gap, trying to avoid the deeper patches of snow. I’m not dressed for this weather. My boots, worn and comfortable inside the confines of a heated car or a cozy classroom, do nothing to fend off the chill seeping up from the ground.

Ahead, yellow tape marks the line between the public and the private, between what we know and what we’re here to find out. ‘Crime Scene Do Not Cross,’ it reads, but what is a line of plastic against the pull of truth, and of disobedient adolescence? We’re here to cross more than just yellow tape. We’re crossing over into… I don’t know. Another world? But not quite. Danger? But I’m always in danger. My goosebumps are neverending.

There’s always something over my shoulder.

I guess we’re crossing from danger into more danger.

I look at the building, at the people milling about – reporters like us, except with the air of having been invited. Cops, with their stern faces and stiff walks. And then there are the others, the ones who don’t fit, who watch the watchers. They’re the ones I’m really here to see. Citizens standing behind the yellow lines, obedient, listening when the cops say to back up.

A flutter in my chest, nervous, keeps me alert. I can’t shake the feeling of being watched, and it’s not by the reporters or the cops.

I’m trying to look everywhere at once, which means I’m effectively seeing nothing. “Focus, Sam,” I mutter under my breath, trying to ground myself.

Jordan and Spinelli are talking, a low murmur between them. I catch snippets – “stay sharp,” “look for anything out of place,” “remember, we’re just high schoolers,” but I don’t catch the full thing, leaving the fine details out of my ear’s grasp.

We reach the tape and Jordan flashes a mock press ID at the officer guarding the entrance. He’s giving us the once-over, skepticism written all over his face. I don’t blame him. We must look like a trio of kids playing dress-up. But he lets us through with a grunt that’s almost a word, and we’re in.

The ground behind the tape is churned mud, the snow trampled by countless boots. It squelches underfoot, and I have to step carefully to avoid slipping. The building’s facade is closer now, looming. It’s a faceless bureaucrat in concrete form, all sharp angles and reflective surfaces.

The air’s electric, charged with the residue of the morning’s chaos. Every sound is amplified – the crunch of snow, the murmur of voices, the distant wail of a siren – and it’s all I can do not to jump at each one.

We edge along the perimeter, Jordan leading, their head swiveling like they’re expecting trouble to jump out from behind every corner. I’m trying to do the same, but it’s Spinelli who stops first, pointing at something on the ground. It’s nothing – just a piece of trash – but for a moment, it felt like a sign.

A cop gives us a once-over, and I fight the urge to duck behind Jordan. “Just act natural,” I remind myself, even though ‘natural’ is the last thing I feel right now.

Spinelli nudges me, whispering, “Got it all on camera, Sam?” I nod, snapping a picture of a footprint in the slush that’s probably from one of the many boots that have come through here, nothing more. It’s got bird shit in the middle of it, too. Fascinating.

Jordan’s doing the talking, which is good because they’ve got this uncanny way of getting people to spill. They approach a cop, all charm and smiles, asking about the incident. The cop, though, he’s not buying it, gives us some line about waiting for the official press release. Jordan’s polite, but their eyes are doing that thing where they’re laughing without a smile. It’s really creepy. I kind of hate when they do that.

I drift away, snapping pictures of everything and nothing. There’s not much to see that hasn’t been plastered all over the news – broken windows, cops, and NSRA officials huddled in groups, talking in hushed tones that don’t carry over the hum of the crowd.

Spinelli’s scribbling in a notebook, probably just doodles, but he’s trying to look the part, bless him. Every so often, he’ll squint at something, jot down a note, and I wonder if he’s actually onto something or just playing the part a little too well. I peek over his shoulder and note both a lack of anatomy in his stick figures and also his horrendous penmanship, but I really can’t blame him, because, a: he used to live on the street and b: my handwriting is, if it can be believed, even worse. Just dogshit handwriting.

Half an hour ticks by, and it’s like we’re walking in circles. I’ve got a collection of photos of the backs of people’s heads, the ground, the sky – anything to look busy. But it’s all just filler. There’s nothing here that tells us anything new. The same old story – tragedy, confusion, and a lot of questions no one’s willing to answer.

We regroup, huddling together like we’re sharing secrets. Jordan’s got that frustrated edge to their voice, talking about stonewalled conversations and tight-lipped officials. Spinelli’s notes are just observations – who’s talking to whom, which cop looks more tired than the rest. Names and badge numbers.

I share the mundane details caught in my lens – the angle of a broken blind, the way the snow’s been trampled down by so many feet it’s become a path of its own, slush compressed into a skid-dy ice layer. It’s all just pieces of a larger puzzle that’s got so many chunks it’s impossible to put together from here.

Jordan decides we’ve got to push harder, ask better questions, or we’re just wasting our time. So, we split up again, me with my camera, Spinelli with his notebook, and Jordan with that persuasive tongue.

I circle around the building, looking for anything off-kilter. There’s an NSRA agent, standing by the door, and I snap a picture. He notices, gives me a withering look, and I just shrug, mumbling something about a project for school. He softens, tells me to stay out of trouble, and I nod like I’m taking it to heart.

Spinelli’s talking to a bystander now, someone who looks like they just came to gawk. Spinelli’s got this earnestness about him that makes people want to talk. The guy’s saying nothing useful, just what he heard on the morning news, but Spinelli writes it down like it’s gospel.

Jordan’s found an NSRA official who’s more talkative. I catch snippets of conversation about response times and protocols. Nothing groundbreaking, but it’s something.

We come back together, sharing our scraps of nothing much. Jordan’s got this look in their eye, the one that says they’re onto something, or they think they are. They’re talking about going deeper, getting more aggressive with questions.

But then I see it, something off in my photos. It’s small, barely noticeable – a window on the third floor, slightly ajar. It’s nothing, probably. But it’s also not nothing. I point it out, and we all stare at that window like it’s going to spill its secrets. Jordan’s saying we need to check it out, but how? We can’t just waltz into the building, not with all these cops around.

We consider our options. More than twice, Jordan suggests just breaking in. Spinelli suggests it only once. I remind them of the plan.

Then, I am reminded of the plan.

Suddenly, abruptly, a car that’s too clean for this dirty parking lot rolls up, coiling right next to us like a rattlesnake. It’s sleek, black, the kind of car that screams ‘government’ even without the NSRA logo emblazoned on the side. It parks with a sense of purpose, and two men step out, both in navy windbreakers with that telltale yellow NSRA text. It’s like the sun came out, except it’s not warm, and it’s not friendly. It’s like those yellow light bulbs on streetlights that make everything look like a horror movie.

One of them’s Mr. Polygraph.

My heart beats faster.

I recognize the build, that salt-and-pepper hair, the… way his body is just set. The mustache is gone, replaced by stubble, like he’s trying to mix up his look, but you don’t forget a face like that. Not when it’s haunted your ‘what if’ nightmares for half a year. Like what if he didn’t waste all his bullets when we first met?

The guy next to him is a mystery, with round sunglasses and a hairstyle that looks like it fought the comb and won. Tan skin. He’s got this presence about him, calm and cool, like he’s walked onto the scene of a hundred crimes and this is just another day at the office. But given that I’m 90% sure the person next to him is Mr. Polygraph, I have to make the assumption that he’s another member of the Kingdom I just haven’t met yet.

My stomach knots as they walk towards us, and Jordan’s beside me, their hand twitching like they’re itching for a fight they know they can’t win. Even Spinelli’s stopped his note-taking, squinting at the newcomers like he’s trying to figure out if they’re part of the plan or something worse.

“Good afternoon,” Mr. Polygraph says, and even though his voice is smooth, there’s a sharpness there. His arm’s cradled close to his body, and I can see him trying to keep it still, the memory of pain flickering across his face when he looks at me. I remember the taste of his blood. His shoulder. I’m glad I hurt him so bad that he’s still feeling it half a year later. That brings me a little satisfaction.

The quiet one, the man with the sunglasses, he’s all politeness. “Agent Evans. This is my partner, Agent Parker,” he introduces, and I nearly choke on my own spit. Agents? They’ve got the confidence, the badges, the guns on their hips that are way too visible for my liking. But agents? Have they infiltrated the NSRA, or is this a complex game of pretend? Isn’t impersonating an officer of the law illegal? Like, super-duper illegal?

Jordan nods at them, cool as ever, but I see the way their fingers have stilled. They’re getting the same impression as I am. “We’re just collecting information for our school paper,” they say, and I have to admire the way their voice doesn’t shake.

I nod along, trying to look the part of a clueless high schooler. “Yeah, our readers are super interested in what’s happening.” My camera suddenly feels like a shield, and I hold onto it like it’s a lifeline, in front of my face. FLASH! Both ‘agents’ wince. Spinelli looks between Jordan and I, clearly confused.

Mr. Polygraph, Agent Parker, whatever he’s calling himself, he smiles, but it’s all teeth, no warmth, like a chimpanzee. “Very civic-minded of you. But this is a crime scene, and we can’t have civilians getting in the way.”

The other one, Evans – ‘Mr. E’? – adds, “It’s dangerous. We wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

I can’t help but snort. Dangerous is a day ending in ‘y’ for us. But I bite back the retort, remember the plan. Mr. Polygraph looks at me like I just called his mom fat. Offended.

Spinelli’s looking between all of us, finally picking up on the tension. “We’ll stay out of the way,” he says, and it’s like he’s trying to defuse a bomb with a smile. Bless him, he’s got this innocence that could disarm anyone. Anyone but these two.

I can feel Mr. Polygraph’s gaze on me, heavy and hot, like he’s branding me with suspicion. He knows, and I know it. He knows who I am, what I am. This is the first time I’m seeing his eyes, gunmetal grey that’s almost, but not quite, blue, and they’re boring a hole through me. He can’t help himself, in the way that dogs can’t help drinking toilet water.

“So,” Jordan says, breaking the silence that’s stretched out too long. “You guys close to catching the guy who did all this?” It’s bait, and we all know it.

Mr. Polygraph’s lips twitch, and I brace myself. Here it comes, the dance around the truth.

“We’re following all leads,” he says, and I almost laugh. Leads? I assume if this is the Kingdom’s doing, then they’re their own leads. The only question is how we can make them admit that.

Evans watches us, those sunglasses hiding his eyes, but I can feel his gaze, analytical, probing. He’s the quiet storm to Polygraph’s brewing tempest. Even though Mr. Polygraph pistol-whipped me in the face hard enough to break my nose, it’s Evans I’m more afraid of. Mr. Polygraph is a known quantity. He shoots people in the head. He’s a lie-detector. Evans? I have no idea what his powers are, assuming he has any.

Given what I’ve seen so far of the Kingdom, though, this seems like a fair assumption.

“We appreciate your… enthusiasm,” Evans continues. “But leave this to the professionals.”

Professionals. The word sticks in my throat like a bad joke. If they’re professionals, I’m the Queen of England.

Mr. Polygraph leans in, his voice dropping to a register that’s meant for threats veiled as advice. “You know, it’s a dangerous world out there,” he says, his eyes locking onto mine. It’s a punch in the gut, his meaning clear: he knows me, he remembers, and he wants me to know it. “Wild ‘heroes’ out there snuffing out innocent lives. Almost makes you wonder what he was looking for in here.”

The cold from the ground seeps up through my boots, but it’s nothing compared to the chill his words send down my spine. I resist the urge to rub at my nose, a phantom ache flaring up where he broke it six months ago. The pain was gone in hours, but sometimes I still feel it, the crack of a gun’s handle – whatever that part of a gun is called – against my schnozz.

Jordan’s beside me, a subtle hand signal behind their back – two fingers, then a fist – our code for ‘yes, it’s Mr. Polygraph,’ as opposed to the codes for the other Kingdom members we’d met. I give a tiny nod, confirmation without words. We’re on the same page, but Spinelli, bless his heart, is clueless, looking between us with a growing frown of confusion.

Come on, Spinelli. You’ve seen this man before. At the warehouse, remember? Don’t make me say it out loud. Don’t make me type it on my phone and get my phone confiscated.

Beside Mr. Polygraph, Agent Evans is a statue. His face gives nothing away, but I can feel his attention like a spotlight, intense and focused. There’s a weight to his silence that’s somehow louder than any threat Mr. Polygraph could throw our way.

Jordan’s voice is even when they speak, a touch of sarcasm that doesn’t quite hide the edge. “We’re always careful, Agent Parker. But thanks for the concern,” they say. They’re playing it cool, but there’s a tremor in their hand that’s not from the cold. “I don’t think many people want to kill student journalists these days,”

Mr. Polygraph smirks, a twisting of his lips that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Just doing my job,” he says, his eyes flicking towards the right for just a split-second.

The tension is a living thing, wrapping around us like a live wire, binding tighter with every word. Spinelli shifts from foot to foot, a question in his eyes that he doesn’t voice. He knows something’s off but not what, and I’m grateful for his obliviousness. Maybe we’ll tell him once we’re home, hopefully free of any bullet holes.

Mr. Polygraph’s questions are casual on the surface, small talk masquerading as interest. “What’s the angle for your story?” he asks, and I smell his probing already. Digging. Trying to use his power on me. But I remember our first encounter – it’s something I could never forget.

“Just the truth, sir,” I reply, smiling as genuinely as I can. Half-truths. Half-answers.

He nods, but his eyes, they’re like drills, boring into me, searching for something. “Facts are important,” he agrees. “But so is perspective. Wouldn’t you say? Important to make sure everyone is represented.”

Jordan snorts, a soft sound that’s almost lost in the noise around us. “Perspective can change depending on where you’re standing,” they reply, and I feel a little lost.

Agent Evans finally speaks, his voice smooth as silk. “Perspective is everything,” he says, almost mouse-quiet.

The world goes silent for a painful moment.

Spinelli’s the one to break it. His discomfort is obvious as he blurts out words; “Yeah, perspectives, angles, got it. We’re just trying to get the school project done, you know?” His innocence is like a beacon, and I can see the glint in Mr. Polygraph’s eye as he turns to face him.

He smells blood in the water.

Mr. Polygraph takes a step closer to Spinelli, who’s blissfully unaware of the traits of the silent predator in front of him. “A school project, huh? That’s admirable. Tell me, what have you kids found out so far?” His voice is casual, but it carries the weight of a cross-examination.

Spinelli starts to respond, but Jordan’s quicker, cutting across him with a pointed, “Not much. Just what everyone else knows from the news.” They’re trying to shield him, to keep Mr. Polygraph’s probing away from the one of us who doesn’t know to lie. Spinelli looks at Jordan, and then looks at me. I try to silently plead with him with my eyes.

Remember, Spindle? You were there when he turned someone’s head into flowers. Is your facial recognition bad? Did you just forget?

Agent Evans, still as a statue beside his partner, gives a subtle nod, almost imperceptible. But I know a signal when I see one.

Mr. Polygraph’s focus narrows, honing in on Spinelli’s notebook. “May I?” he asks, reaching out a hand, but Jordan’s quicker, a step between them, a laugh that’s too sharp to be genuine.

“Sorry, Agent Parker, but we need it for our report. School rules,” they say, and Mr. Polygraph raises an eyebrow. But then he pulls his hand back.

I’m watching Agent Evans, trying to catch any hint, any tell that might give away what he’s doing, what he’s sensing. But he’s a closed book, and if he’s reading our emotions, he’s keeping the contents to himself.

Spinelli looks between us, a wrinkle of confusion on his forehead. “It’s just notes,” he says, and I want to cover his mouth, to stop the words that might spill out and give us away.

But it’s too late. Mr. Polygraph has that look, the one a shark gets when it’s circling. “I’m sure they’re very thorough notes. You seem like a diligent student,” he says, and I don’t miss the emphasis on ‘diligent.’

Jordan’s hand is on Spinelli’s shoulder, a squeeze that’s a clear ‘stop talking.’ But Spinelli’s a talker, it’s what he does when he’s nervous. “Yeah, I like to get the details right,” he says, and I can almost hear the silent alarm bells ringing.

I jump in then, feigning interest in the conversation. “Agents must have to get a lot of details right too, huh?” It’s a deflection, a way to pull attention from Spinelli.

Agent Evans shifts his weight, and I catch the slight movement, the way his attention flicks from Spinelli back to me. “Details are our specialty,” he says. There’s a calm certainty in his voice that fills me with uncertain dread.

Mr. Polygraph’s gaze is a laser, cutting through the pretense, looking for the lie he’s sure is there. “So, this project of yours, when is it due?” he asks, a question that has nothing to do with dates. Agent Evans watches, still silent, still analyzing. I wonder what he sees when he looks at us. Fear? Defiance? Desperation?

Jordan’s already squeezing Spinneli’s shoulder. “We’ve got time,” I say, stepping in front of Spinelli, blocking him, cutting Mr. Polygraph off with a half-truth. “Don’t worry about it.”

Agent Evans steps forward, his tone suddenly sharp, “What, can the guy not speak for himself? Stop cutting him off. We want to hear what your note-taker has to say.” His words slice through the tension, a direct challenge to our charade.

Spinelli’s mouth opens, then closes, a trapped look on his face. Mr. Polygraph leans in, his voice deliberate, “We’re just looking for a… what’s the word… a fruitful conversation?”

He glances to Agent Evans, as if asking for confirmation. “That’s the word, right, smart guy?”

“It’s your favorite,” Agent Evans quips, his face moving like he’s rolling his eyes.

The word hangs in the air, and it’s like a switch flips in Spinelli. Color drains from his face, his eyes widen, a flicker of recognition flashing across them as he stares at Mr. Polygraph. “Halloween,” he whispers, the word slipping out, a quiet gasp of realization.

Jordan’s foot nudges against Spinelli’s, a silent command to shut up, but it’s too late. Mr. Polygraph’s head tilts, his brow furrows. “What was that you just said?” His voice is calm, but there’s a steel edge to it, the lie-detector in him sensing the thread to pull.

Agent Evans watches Spinelli’s panic with a predator’s interest. “Why so nervous? What’s got you white as a ghost all of a sudden?” His questions are like probes, sharp and precise, and Spinelli looks like he’s about to crumble.

I step in, trying to deflect, “He’s just not used to this kind of attention. You know, shy.” My voice is too high, the words tumbling out too fast.

But Agent Evans doesn’t buy it, and he doesn’t let up. “Shy, or is there more to it?” He leans in, his gaze locked onto Spinelli, who’s now visibly trembling.

Nearby cops have started to glance our way, drawn by the sudden spike in tension. Their hands rest near their belts, an unconscious mirroring of readiness. We’re drawing a crowd, and not the kind we want.

Jordan steps up to Spinelli, a shield of bravado. “He doesn’t know anything. Just let it go, okay?” They’re trying to defuse the bomb that’s inches from going off.

Mr. Polygraph looks between us, processing everything that just happened. He doesn’t press further, but the silence he leaves behind is loud with suspicion.

The cops are closing in now, their boots crunching on the gravel-strewn snow, their breath fogging up in the cold air as they approach our little standoff. “Is there a problem here?” one of them asks, the question more of a command than an inquiry.

Mr. Polygraph doesn’t miss a beat, his voice taking on the smooth cadence of authority. He fishes out a badge, flipping it open with a practiced motion. “Agent Parker,” he introduces himself, the badge glinting in the weak sunlight. “And this is Agent Evans,” he gestures to his silent partner, who nods curtly. “NSRA internal investigators,” Mr. Polygraph continues, his words carrying the weight of officialdom. “Badge numbers 7742 and 5598.”

He’s good, I’ll give him that. If I didn’t know better, I’d have believed him myself.

The officer takes a moment to examine the badge, his expression unreadable. “Internal affairs, huh?” he mutters, more to himself than to anyone else.

“My condolences for the tragedy here,” Mr. Polygraph says, his voice steady and somber. “It’s a difficult day for all of us. We’re just ensuring that everything is handled with the respect and seriousness it deserves.”

The officer hands back the badge, his posture relaxing slightly. “Of course. I understand. We appreciate the NSRA’s cooperation in these circumstances.”

Mr. Polygraph offers a solemn nod, his face a mask of professional grief. “Just making sure everything is on the up-and-up.”

The cops exchange looks, their initial suspicion waning under the onslaught of Mr. Polygraph’s confidence. “Are these kids interrupting anything?” one of the officers says, his voice trailing off as he scrutinizes the badge.

Agent Evans steps in, his demeanor unflappable. “These are just some local students,” he says, gesturing to us with a dismissive wave. “Toddler journalists working on a school project. They’re fine where they are.”

The term ‘toddler journalists’ stings, a condescending pat on the head that leaves me seething, but it’s better than being escorted off the premises. The police seem to take their word for it, their posture relaxing as they step back, giving us space but still watching closely. I remember his burning words – toddler with a wire – and it feels like another precise jab to keep me off-guard.

We’re left feeling more alone than before, the thin veil of our cover story hanging by a thread. The agents have saved us from immediate ejection, but the cost is clear. We’re now playing by their rules, on their board, and they’ve just made a very public show of their power. The agents’ assurances to the cops are a band-aid over a bullet wound. It’s too neat, too easy, and it leaves a sour taste in my mouth. Spinelli’s still pale, his eyes darting between Jordan and me, looking for some kind of anchor in the roiling sea of tension.

Mr. Polygraph looks back at us, his smile tight and calculated. “As I was saying,” he continues, as if we hadn’t been interrupted, “enthusiasm is to be commended, but safety comes first. We wouldn’t want an accident.”

Yes, the agents’ sudden appearance and smooth handling of the cops are as suspicious as a shark in a swimming pool, but suspicion isn’t proof. It doesn’t confirm that the Kingdom framed Miasma, just that they’re entangled in this mess, which isn’t news to us. The real question—whether the Kingdom orchestrated Miasma’s fall from grace—remains unanswered. Yet.

Jordan leans in, their voice low but clear. “Hostile, agents. Are you threatening us? What exactly do you mean by ‘we wouldn’t want an accident’?” There’s a bite to their words, a challenge that’s not quite hidden beneath the surface.

Agent Parker’s smile doesn’t waver, but it’s all facade. “Threatening? Of course not. We’re all on the same side here, aren’t we?” His question is rhetorical, but it’s the opening I need.

“Of course we are,” I say quickly, meeting his gaze with a confidence I don’t feel.

Mr. Polygraph’s eyes narrow just a fraction, a twitch at the corner of his mouth. It’s almost imperceptible, but it’s there.

His lie detector, going off.

Jordan catches on to my play, a quick side-eye that’s all the conversation we need. They step up the act, pushing just a bit further. “Like she said, we’re all on the same side. You guyses and us guyses.” Their voice is steady, well-practiced. Jordan is much better at lying than I am.

The agents exchange a glance, and there’s a current of communication there that I can’t read. Mr. Polygraph’s jaw clenches, just for a second, and I know we’ve got him. He’s questioning himself, his power, trying to reconcile what he knows with what we’re saying.

Agent Evans is silent, but his eyes are sharp behind those sunglasses, watching the exchange like a hawk. He hasn’t said much, but I can tell he’s calculating, assessing the situation with a keen edge that’s more intimidating than any of Mr. Polygraph’s thinly veiled threats.

Mr. Polygraph finally breaks the stalemate. “I see,” he says, drawing out the words. There’s a moment where he scrutinizes us, like he’s lining up his next shot. “Well, as long as you’re just… pursuing the truth.” The pause is pregnant with implication, his tone laden with a subtext that’s probing and skeptical.

He shifts, just slightly, and I can tell he’s not done fishing. “Tell me,” he starts, his gaze sharp, “you’ve been here since the morning, right?” The question is direct, a hook cast out into the open water.

Jordan’s poker face is perfect. “That’s right,” they answer, steady as ever. It’s another lie, a small one, but I can see the twitch in Mr. Polygraph’s cheek that says he’s got a bite.

Spinelli’s fidgeting beside me, and I give his arm a reassuring squeeze. I need to keep him quiet and calm, away from Mr. Polygraph’s radar.

I jump in, eager to build on the momentum. “Yeah, we came straight here after our first class.” It’s a blatant lie; we’ve been all over the place today, but Mr. Polygraph’s question was a golden opportunity.

Mr. Polygraph’s eyes flick to me, and there’s a flash of something like triumph in them. “First class, huh? Must’ve been an early one.” His voice is casual, but it’s clear he’s on the scent.

I nod, keeping my expression neutral. “We’re dedicated,” I say with a smile that I hope looks genuine.

Agent Evans is still quiet, but his silence feels heavy, loaded. He’s not asking the questions, but I get the feeling he’s analyzing every response, every twitch and fidget.

Mr. Polygraph leans in, and I can smell the mint on his breath – a mask for the coffee, perhaps. “And your teacher just let you skip the rest of the day to be here?” he asks, a question that’s a little too on the nose.

It’s Jordan who answers this time, “We have a very understanding journalism club supervisor. She knows a big opportunity when she sees one.”

Mr. Polygraph’s eyes narrow just a fraction. “Who’s your journalism club supervisor?” he asks directly, his voice smooth like oil, but I can hear the gears grinding behind it.

I scramble for a name, something believable. “Mrs. Thompson,” I blurt out. It sounds fake even to my own ears.

“I don’t believe you,” Mr. Polygraph counters quickly, his gaze sharp and probing. “What school?” he presses.

“Germantown Friends School,” I say, trying to sound confident. He already knows where I live. I’m sure he knows the school I go to.

But that’s not the reason I’m lying rapid-fire.

He nods, but there’s a skepticism in his eyes that doesn’t fade. “Germantown Friends School students taking a deep interest in crime scenes… Do you often find yourselves in such unique situations?” There’s a weight to his question, a trap waiting to spring.

“We’re always looking for interesting stories,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. “Part of why our school paper is so renowned.”

“And where do these interesting stories usually take you?” he asks, while Agent Evans takes a single step back, cutting Spinelli in half with his gaze. I can almost hear our poor lanky friend whimpering like a dog.

Jordan jumps in, saving me from having to answer. “All over Philly. You know, covering a wide range.” Their voice is steady, but I can see the tension in their shoulders.

“So, ‘all over Philly,’ but never in places you shouldn’t be, right?” Mr. Polygraph’s question is direct, a sharpened hook baited and waiting.

Too bad he doesn’t realize that his hook is actually, um… It’s… It’s tangled with… My… hook? And I’m fishing also? This metaphor made more sense in my hindbrain.

“Of course not. We stick to public places, parks, streets…” I respond, trying to sound nonchalant, but there’s a pounding in my ears that makes it hard to think. “Never anywhere we shouldn’t be. No private property, you know? Haven’t even visited city hall yet.”

“But never anywhere off-limits. You kids aren’t off exploring abandoned buildings, restricted areas?” Mr. Polygraph pushes, his eyes fixed on me.

Snap. A beartrap going shut on his ankles, and he hasn’t even realized it’s bitten in deep.

I seize the opening he’s just unwittingly given me. “Abandoned buildings?” I counter, my tone laced with feigned confusion. “Do we look like we’re dressed for urban spelunking? We were talking about our journalism project.”

“Where’d that come from?” Jordan follows up, a one-two punch of snark.

He falters for a moment, his confident facade cracking. “I just mean… in general,” he stammers, trying to regain his footing in the conversation.

I press on, sensing his discomfort. “That’s a pretty specific thing to ask about, don’t you think?” I challenge, my gaze steady.

Mr. Polygraph opens his mouth to respond, but no words come out. His face reddens, and I see the anger behind his eyes ready to flare out.

The anger in him conflicting with his guise.

Agent Evans steps in smoothly, his voice calm but firm. “We’re just ensuring all aspects of the investigation are covered. No need to read into it.”

But the damage is done, and I can’t help but feel a surge of triumph. Mr. Polygraph’s specific line of questioning, his slip about ‘abandoned buildings,’ tells me all I need to know.

Jordan joins in, their voice dripping with skepticism. “Oh, we’re part of the investigation now? I didn’t realize.”

Mr. Polygraph recovers slightly, but his earlier confidence has diminished, replaced with boiling fury. “Just making conversation,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction, replaced with frustration. He stiffens his back up and squares his shoulders. There’s a moment’s pause, and then, his face flattens a little in some form of defeat. “Just be sure to stay out of trouble. We wouldn’t want you getting in over your heads,” he says, his tone a mix of warning and challenge.

I nod, feigning acceptance of his explanation, but internally, I’m putting the pieces together. His floundering response, the too-specific inquiry – it all points to one thing: they know more about us than they should, more than they could without keeping tabs on us.

“Don’t worry, Agent Parker. We know our limits,” Jordan replies, a knowing glance shared between us. “Will that be all?”

Agent Evans finally moves his gaze from Spinelli over to Jordan and I. He sweeps through us, and then grabs Mr. Polygraph by the wrist before he can launch into another interrogation. “We’re done here. Have a productive day, kids,” he says, although Mr. Polygraph looks almost flabbergasted. That’s it. Conversation over. Can he smell our victory? The little cheers in my heart?

Mr. Polygraph scowls at me. “You three stay safe. We’ll be in touch.”

I can’t hide my smile. “I bet,”

Mr. Polygraph and Agent Evans start to back away, their roles played out for now, but the threat lingers in the air like a bad smell, like rotting fish. We watch them go, each step they take feeling like a small victory. As their car pulls away, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Jordan looks at me, a mix of relief and worry in their eyes.

“We did it,” I say, but my voice is flat. It doesn’t feel like a win. It feels like we’ve just bought ourselves a little time.

Jordan sits on a dry patch in the snow, butt on the curb.

Spinelli, who’s been silent through most of the exchange once he realized that Agent Parker killed a man in front of him, just with sunglasses on and a nicer suit, finally speaks up. “What just happened?” he asks, confusion written all over his face.

I give his shoulders a pat. “Patience, young one. All will be revealed in time.”

---

Back at our hideout, the mood is a mix of tension and triumph. Spinelli’s been bouncing his knee the entire taxi ride back, a clear sign he’s been holding back a storm of questions. Once we’re safely inside our aluminum-foil-lined Faraday cage room, away from any prying eyes or ears, it’s like uncorking a bottle.

“Alright. What just happened?” Spinelli bursts out the moment the door closes behind us. “That guy, he’s the one from the warehouse, right? The one who… who did that thing? But what was the rest of it? Why are you guys smirking like we just won?”

Jordan leans against the wall, arms crossed. “Yeah, that was him. Mr. Polygraph,” they confirm, their voice low.

I start pacing, the adrenaline still coursing through my veins. I can’t hide my smile. “His power tells him when someone’s lying. That’s why he was asking those weirdly specific questions.”

Jordan adds, “Think about it, Spinelli. How would he know to ask us about abandoned buildings? We were having a perfectly cordial, if tense, conversation about being journalism club students. I’m sure he was digging for info about our whereabouts, but he ended up talking too much.”

Spinelli’s eyes widen in realization, the pieces clicking into place. “But how would he know to ask about abandoned buildings? That doesn’t make any sense.”

Jordan and I both stare at him a little bit. I hear the hamster wheels turning. Then, I watch the eureka moment happen in real time. “OH! THEY’RE SPYING ON US!”

Jordan smiles and ruffles his hair. He looks extremely pleased. “So, it’s not the NSRA, it’s… his group? Does this change much? I think we suspected them anyway, right?”

I shake my head. “It changes everything. Knowing it’s the Kingdom spying on us, not the NSRA, it narrows down our list of suspects and gives us a direction to push in. And – it almost certainly means that the Kingdom is the group that framed Miasma.”

“And it means we have a picture of them impersonating federal officers. Just FYI,” Jordan adds, pointing to my camera. “Might be useful,”

The weight of the revelation hangs in the air like a floating elephant. Spinelli sits down at the plastic table, his light weight barely even making it creak. He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration and realization. “So, what’s our next move? We can’t just sit here knowing they’re onto us.”

Jordan leans against the wall, their expression thoughtful. “We keep investigating. We follow this lead. The Kingdom’s involvement isn’t just a coincidence. They’re deeply tied to whatever’s going on.”

I nod in agreement. “We need to be smart about this. Careful. We’ve got an advantage now, but we’re playing a dangerous game. One wrong move, and we could be walking into another trap. They already turned the public against Miasma in one fell swoop even without any coherent evidence.”

“Last thing we need is a manhunt for some juvenile murderers,” Jordan quips, blowing their bangs out of their face with a puff of air.

Spinelli slumps into a chair, his body sagging. “Are we in danger?”

“We’re always in danger,” I reply, but there’s a steely determination in my voice. “That’s what being a hero is all about,”

---

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