WE FOLLOW LEO through a set of doors and into the back hallway. It is so totally pitch-black that we have to feel our way along the wall until we reach the first open doorway. It is brighter in the office, the moon reflecting off the water back there and in through the three windows. It gives everything in the room an eerie blue-gray glow—the dark wood bookshelves, the big mahogany desks, the walls of Riel’s grandfather’s framed awards and photographs, our faces. Leo waves Jasper off when he goes to close the door, then points to his ear. Leave it open so we can hear.

I lean against a bare spot on the wall and try to get myself to take a breath. I do not have a good feeling. I have a very terrible one actually. I try to tell myself that it’s only my anxiety again—and it could be. Except, now that I can feel the difference that’s easier said than done.

I try to focus instead on the framed certificate nearest me, with the curly cursive script and fancy shield in the middle. Hard to decipher in the dark. Finally, I see that it’s an honorary doctorate in political science from the University of Arizona, awarded to one Senator David Russo.

Senator Russo. The senator my dad was meeting with? Has the monster that Riel described—the one who she is so sure won’t sit idly by and accept the gender disparity in my dad’s research—decided to stop the Outliers at the source: my dad?

I have begun to tremble against the wall. In the distance, there is the sound of the front door opening.

“Yeah?” Riel’s voice is trying to sound blasé, even a little annoyed. But whoever is at that door is not who she expected. “What do you want?”

“Hi, ma’am.” A man’s voice, one that I have heard before. “I’m Agent Klute, and this is Agent Stevens. We’re with the Department of Homeland Security.”

Jasper nudges me. He’s holding his phone out. And it is on, signal flush with all the bars.

“I thought it was off,” he whispers in my ear. “I’m so sorry.”

And what is there to say? One tap in the wrong place, or one too many. It’s easy enough to think you turned something off when you didn’t. I reach forward and put a hand on his arm to comfort him. To steady myself.

“Did something happen to my grandfather?” Riel is talking loud. Playing dumb. Making sure we can hear. Buying us more time.

“Not that I’m aware of,” Agent Klute says, all smooth calm. I can imagine him smiling, too, with his big white teeth. “We’re here for Wylie Lang.”

And all I can think of is my bag—or Rachel’s bag—out there in the kitchen with my mom’s photographs.