She opens the door and shifts to the side for me to pass. “I’m sorry. But please don’t contact me or my family again.”

“The truth should matter,” I insist.

“Maybe.” Kacee Anderson shrugs. “But if everyone believes in something, isn’t that just another kind of truth? Who’s to say your version is better?”

Mrs. Anderson shuts the door on me and the truth I represent. I know she won’t open it again. But now I have confirmed that she’s scared of the government she works for and worried that they might do to her what they did to my mother.

The weight of that snaps the last thread tethering me to the lie I was living.

My mother was murdered.

The words whisper in my head as I retrieve my bike. They grow louder as I roll it down the sidewalk, past people walking their dogs, laughing in the sunshine, or going about their day. Every couple of blocks a weatherproof public screen chirps out the news, even though almost no one is paying attention. I never did until yesterday. But the screens were always there. The stories were constantly on the edge of my awareness. Part of my life. I trusted the anchors on those screens to tell me if there was something I needed to hear. I never questioned that. Now I wonder if any of them know they aren’t giving me the truth. If they made that choice or if those choices were taken away from them, too.

Like the words were taken. Like my mother was.

Anger churns. I climb on my bike and start to pedal. Only, I know I can’t go home. I can’t just pretend everything is okay, and it’s not like I can tell Dad what I’ve learned. Not without more proof than an old textbook and a battered dictionary.

According to Mrs. Anderson, Mom found information in the archives she wasn’t supposed to have and planned to share it with the public. I saw the sign for the archives when I interviewed with Mr. Beschloss. It had the same security keypad as the elevator did in order to reach that floor. Maybe it’s reckless, but I’m determined to get into the archives myself to see if I can find what she found. And I have an idea of how to do just that.

I pedal hard along the city streets, looking behind me every few blocks, just in case anyone is following. When I pull up in front of Rose’s condo, I watch the street for several minutes as I catch my breath. No cars appear. When I’m as certain as I can be that no one is watching, I head inside. I punch the code that lets me into the building and replay what I’m going to say in my mind as the door to Rose’s condo opens.

“Hey, Meri.” Isaac’s eyes go flat when he spots me. He’s dripping with sweat and wipes the back of his neck with a towel as he snaps, “Rose isn’t home and I was just about to get in the shower.”