The call to Ketzler’s office came during sixth period. I guessed they’d already run through the cheerleaders and baseball players and were now hitting the third-stringers, the kids who weren’t close to Aden but who were there when it happened. When the note arrived and the teacher nodded at me, I knew my turn had come.

Too much was happening. I still had the growing infestation to deal with, and that was my first priority. The Mazikin were attacking the most vulnerable people around, and they were building their numbers. They’d even gotten my mothe—no. I shoved the thought down and crushed it beneath my heels as I stalked toward Ketzler’s lair.

The Mazikin were recruiting the homeless. On top of that, I was willing to bet they’d make a play for another one of my innocent classmates. Tegan. Ian. Greg. Someone who had been important to Aden. Important enough for Ibram to tell Sil about. Someone they could use to get to me and Malachi. I had to protect them. I couldn’t live with myself if the Mazikin got any of them.

As if all that weren’t enough … I couldn’t figure out how to deal with Malachi. Or how to think about him. But he had been so right: letting emotion interfere was compromising the mission in multiple ways. I needed to let him go and look at him the same way I looked at Jim and Henry. A colleague. A fellow Guard. If only it were that easy.

“Oh, Lela,” said the gray-haired secretary, giving me a tremulous smile. “They’re waiting for you in there.” She pointed to the little conference room next to Ketzler’s office.

“I’m here to see Ketzler?” I said, thinking maybe she’d made a mistake. The conference room was where they cornered students. Confronted them and ganged up on them. It had happened to me a few times. Nancy had done it once or twice, teaming up with Ketzler to let me know they “all worked as a team” and were “here to support me.” Translation: Ketzler would tattle if I put even a toe out of line, and Nancy would see I got court-ordered back to the RITS.

The secretary nodded. “She’s in there, honey. Your foster mother’s here, too.”

What the heck? My dread mounting, I crossed the room. The door swung open before I got my hand on the knob. Ms. Ketzler, mascara-free today, greeted me with a softly serious expression on her face, like I was about to be executed and she felt kinda sorry for me. I craned my neck and saw Diane, who looked the same way.

“Diane,” I said as I walked into the room, my heart thumping heavily. “What’s up?”