“I told you to . . .” He takes a loud breath, then quietly asks, “Where are you?”

“A park.” I scramble up to my knees and peer out over the slide. “Freedom Fields Park.”

“I’ll find it. Don’t move until I get there.” The phone goes dead before I can reply.

So I sit and wait, staring at the plans in front of me with my legs pulled tight against my chest, unable to stop myself from imagining all the things my mother must have thought when she found this file. How horrified she must have felt when she realized the job she loved was a lie, and how scared she must have been.

She had to have known there was a chance the government would learn about the things she was looking into and that if they found out they would be watching Dad and me to see if she shared what she suspected with us.

If she had only left things alone, she would be alive. She would be like Mrs. Anderson—home with her family. With me.

Anger burns hot and bright, then flickers and dies, because I understand why she couldn’t live her life pretending not to know what she had learned. And maybe she loved me enough to not want me to have to live that life, either.

Was that why she created the paintings?

So I would follow them, find the Lyceum, and reveal the truth? So I could finish the work she had begun?

A childish laugh rings like a bell, reminding me where I am. My hands shake as I fold up the blueprints, shove the papers into the folder, and tuck it back under my shirt. Then I swipe away the tears that fell without my being aware of them and wait.

Finally, my phone dings.

I’M HERE. WHERE ARE YOU?

IN THE FORT.

I start to climb down but my phone dings again.

BE RIGHT THERE.

Atlas’s face appears. He looks pissed and sweaty as he pulls himself into the fort, which suddenly feels really cramped. He shrugs off the backpack he’s carrying, sets it to the side, and glares. “I told you to stay inside your house until you saw me again.”

“Well, I didn’t listen and I’m not sorry. That’s how I found this.” I pull the file out from under my shirt.

Quickly, I tell him about my trip to visit Mrs. Anderson and how I followed my mom’s footsteps and snuck into the City Pride Department archives. A small spot on Atlas’s temple starts to pulse as I talk, but he doesn’t flip out, which I take as a positive sign. I slide the blueprints out of the folder and hand them to him. “Your dad could be there, right now.”

Atlas frowns as he studies the page, then looks up at me. “You should have called instead of taking so many unnecessary risks. If you’d been caught at Liberty Tower—”

“But I wasn’t.”

“You got lucky, but . . .” He slowly reaches out and takes my hand in his. “If it helps me find my dad, I will never be able to thank you.”