The information.
But I was here, and I had a chance. I made a split-second decision, then brushed my fingers against the SRF sign, like that little touch could give me luck. And then I walked inside.
A bell rang when I pulled open the front door. The receptionist, who sat behind a long wooden desk, glanced up. She looked pretty young, with short, curly blond hair and blue eyes. The nameplate on her desk read LISA. She took in my plaid skirt and St. Sophia’s hoodie, then smiled kindly.
“Hi there. You must be from the school down the street?”
I nodded, walking slowly toward the desk so that I could get a sense of the reception area. Although the building was squat and old-school on the outside, the interior was bright and modern, with lots of sharp lines and edgy furniture. There was a closed door behind the reception area, and another one on the left side of the room behind an L-shaped sofa.
I reached the desk, then tugged on my satchel. “Yeah, I am. I’m Lily. I’m in an art studio, and we’re supposed to study a building in the neighborhood. Would it be okay if I draw yours?”
“Oh, sure, that’s fine.”
“I just didn’t want you to think I was snooping around or anything.” Although I totally am, I silently added.
“It’s no problem. I’m Lisa, so if anyone gives you any trouble, just find me, okay?”
“Sure,” I said. “Thanks a lot.” I felt a prickle of guilt that she was being so nice. It’s not like I had bad intentions, but I wasn’t being exactly truthful, either.
After we exchanged a smile, I began walking to the front door. But then I stopped, and I didn’t know what I was going to say until the words were out of my mouth. “Um, if you don’t mind me asking, what kind of things do you research here?”
“Oh, we don’t actually do research. We’re a foundation—we sponsor other people’s research.”
Nerves lit through my stomach. I was getting closer, and I knew it. “Oh, yeah? That sounds cool.”
“It’s very interesting,” she agreed. “We fund scientific research projects all over the world.”
Of course they do, I thought, then smiled again. “Thanks again for your time.”
“Anytime,” she said, then looked over at her computer monitor again.
That was when Lisa’s phone rang. “Wow,” she said after she’d picked it up. “You finished faster than I thought you would. I’ll be right up to get it.” The handset went down, and she slid out of her chair and from behind her desk, then trotted to the stairs, where she disappeared through a second-floor door.
I glanced back at her desk.
Crap. You only live once, right?
When the upstairs door closed behind her, I made my move. I skittered behind her desk, put a hand to the door behind it, and peeked inside.
It was an office, and a nice one. My heart thudded when I read the nameplate on the desk: WILLIAM PERRY.
Someone named William had signed the letter to my parents on SRF letterhead—the letter that encouraged them to send me to St. Sophia’s and not tell me what they were working on. If this was his office, he was an SRF bigwig—the head of the foundation, maybe.
I wasn’t sure how much time I’d have before Lisa came back, so I glanced around to see what could be checked quickly. There were framed diplomas on one wall, and the opposite wall held a desk with a tall credenza behind it.
There was a computer on the desk.
“Bingo,” I quietly said. I peeked back into the hallway to make sure the coast was clear, then moved in for a look at the computer monitor.
None of the programs was on, but the guy had a really messy desktop. There were icons everywhere, from files to Internet links to random programs. I scanned them quickly—I surely had only a moment before she came back downstairs again—and decided on his e-mail program.
When it loaded, the first message in the queue was from Mark Parker—my dad—and the subject line read, “DNA Trials—Round 1.”
My hand shaking, I opened it.
“Dear William,” it read. “To follow up from our last call, we’re beginning to pull in the data from the first round of trials. Unfortunately, we’re not seeing the DNA combinations we’d hoped to see. We’re still hopeful some adjustments in the component samples will give us positive results in this round, but adjustments mean more time. We don’t want to push the schedule back any further than necessary, but we think the investment of time is worth it in this case. Please give us a call when you have time.” The message was signed “Mark and Susan.”
Somehow, over the thudding of my pulse in my ears, I heard the clacking of Lisa’s footsteps in the lobby. I closed the program, ran away from the desk, and held up my paintbrush.
She looked inside Perry’s office, worry in her expression. “What are you doing in here?”
I smiled brightly and held my paintbrush up. “Sorry. I pulled this out and dropped it. It rolled in here. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Oh,” she said, clearly relieved. “Well, let’s get you back into the lobby.”
When I was back in her safety zone, she took a seat behind the desk and gave me a thin smile. “Good luck with your drawing,” she said, but she didn’t sound very enthused. I might have had an excuse for being in the office, but some part of her wasn’t buying it. Time to get out.
“Sure. Thanks again for your help. Have a nice day.” I practically skipped out of the building, even though the urge to run back into the room was almost overwhelming. My parents had been on the computer in Perry’s office, talking about research—and clearly not the philosophical kind.
I walked outside, heart still beating wildly, and headed to an empty covered bus stop bench. I took a seat and took a moment to process what I’d seen.
Fact—my parents knew Foley. She admitted they knew each other, and I’d seen a letter they’d written to her.
Fact—that letter had been written on SRF stationery. That meant my parents were connected to the foundation, and that connection was strong enough that they got to use the letterhead.
Fact—my parents had talked to William Perry about “DNA” and what sounded like experiments. That meant my parents and Perry were still in contact, and they were giving him updates about their work. Whatever that was.
Conclusion—my parents weren’t just philosophy professors, and they were definitely researching something.
But what? And even if you put all those facts together, what did they mean? And what did they have to do with my being at St. Sophia’s?
And then the lightbulb popped on.
There was one more fact I hadn’t considered—Scout and I had snuck into Foley’s office one night to return a folder stolen by the brat pack. While we were there, we found the letter from William to my parents. He’d also written something like he’d “inform Marceline.”
William knew Foley, which meant that if I wanted more facts, she was the next person on my list. And although she’d cautioned me about digging too deeply, it could hardly hurt to talk to her about things, could it? After all, she was in the middle of the mystery just like I was. Realizing my next step, I walked out of the bus stop and back toward the convent. The school bells began to ring just as I reached the front door of the convent, but I ignored them.
I wasn’t going to class.
I walked through the main building and into the administrative wing. Her office was at the end of the hall, MARCELINE D. FOLEY Stenciled across the open door in gold letters. A sturdy-looking woman stood inside, dressed in black, clipboard in hand. One of the dragon ladies.
I made eye contact with Foley, who sat behind her desk, and stood a few feet away while she and the woman finished their discussion—something about tuition billing issues. When they were done, the woman walked past me. She looked at me as she passed, but didn’t offer a smile, just a tiny nod of acknowledgment.
My stomach knotted, but I made myself walk to the threshold of the door. I stayed there until Foley looked up at me.
“Ms. Parker. Shouldn’t you be in class right now?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“About?”
“My parents.”
Alarm passed across her face, but only for a second. And then she looked like the headmistress once again. “Come in, and close the door behind you.”
I walked inside and shut the door, then sat down in one of the chairs in front of her desk, my bag across my lap.
“I know you told me to think hard before I asked too many questions about my parents. But like we talked about, I know they’re connected to the Sterling Research Foundation.” I paused, gathering my courage to make my confession. “I went there a few minutes ago. I’m going to draw the building for my studio class. I went inside to ask permission, and kind of got a glance at a computer.”
“Kind of?” she repeated, suspicion in her voice.
I ignored the question. “I found an e-mail about my parents. It was to William, the head of the SRF, and it was all about their research. Something about DNA results and trials and what they were going to do in the future.”
Foley waited for a moment. “I see,” she said. “Anything else?”
“Anything else? Isn’t that enough? I mean, I’ve confirmed they’re not doing philosophical research. Or not just doing philosophical research. They talked about DNA, so I guess that means genetic research.”I stopped. “They’ve been lying to me.”
“They’ve been protecting you.”
I shook my head. “They’re in Germany, but even if they were here right now, I’d feel so far away from them.”
“Lily.” Her voice was kind, but stern. “I am not privy to the details of your parents’ work. But I know that they’re doing important work.”
“What kind of important work?”
She looked away. A dark knot of fear began to curl in my belly, but I pushed it down. “They work for the SRF?”
“The SRF funds their research.”
“Why did the SRF give them advice about sending me here?”
“It suggests the SRF rendered advice about protecting you from the nature of their work or the circle of those who also engage in it.”
That knot tightened, and I had to force out the words. “Why would they do that?”
She gave me a flat look.
“Because it has something to do with the Dark Elite.”
Her lips pursed tight.
My legs shook so badly I had to lock my knees to stay upright. The Dark Elite were doing some kind of medical procedures. My parents were doing some kind of DNA experiments. Were they part of the Dark Elite?
“Do they know I have firespell?” I asked, and I could hear the panic in my voice. “Do they know I’m involved now?”
She sighed. “They receive regular updates about you and your safety.”
“And that’s all you’re going to tell me?”
“That’s all I can tell you. That’s all I’m allowed to tell you,” she added, as I started to protest. “Just as there are rules of engagement for you as an Adept, there are rules of engagement for me as—”
“As what?”
“As the headmistress of this school,” she primly said.
I shook my head and glanced over at one of the walls of books as tears began to slide down my cheeks. “This really sucks.”
“Ms. Parker—”
“No, I’m sorry, but it sucks. They’re my parents. I know less about them than half the people on this block in fricking Chicago, and the stuff I do know is all lies and secrets and half-truths.”
Her jaw clenched. “I believe it’s time for you to return to class, Ms. Parker, before you say things that you’ll regret and that will result in demerits and punishment.”
I opened my mouth, but she was up and out of her chair before I could say anything.
She tapped a finger onto the desktop. “Regardless of your concerns about your parents, you are at my institution. You will treat this institution and this office with respect, regardless of the circumstances that brought you here. Is that understood?”
I didn’t answer.
“Is. That. Understood?”
I nodded.
“Life, Ms. Parker, is very often unfair. Tragedies occur every second of every minute of every day. That your parents saw fit to protect you with certain omissions is not, in the big scheme of things, a substantial tragedy.” She looked away. “Return to class.”
I went back to the classroom building. But I walked slowly. And before I even made it out of the admin wing I ducked into one of the alcoves and pulled out my phone. Sure, I was equal parts mad at my parents, worried for their safety, and sad about whatever it was they were doing—and that they’d lied to me about it—but mostly I felt very, very far away from them.
“ARE YOU OKAY?” I texted my dad.
I sat with the phone in my hands, staring at the screen, wondering why they weren’t answering. Were they hurt? In the middle of doing evil things . . . or debating whether to tell me the truth about those evil things?
Finally, I got a message back. “WE’RE GREAT. HOW ARE CLASSES?”
I gazed down at the screen, trying to figure out what to ask him, what to say, how to form the right question . . . but I had no clue what to say.
How do you ask your parents if they’re evil?
I closed my eyes and rested my head against the cool stone behind me. You didn’t ask, I finally realized. You held off until you knew the right thing to say, until the question couldn’t be delayed any longer. You held off so you weren’t creating unnecessary drama that was only going to cause trouble for everyone.
Tears brimming again, I set my thumbs to the keyboard. “BORING. TTYL.”
“LOVE YOU, LILS,” he sent back.
Nobody ever said growing up was easy.
14
Scout could see something was wrong when I walked into class. But it was Brit lit, and Whitfield, our teacher, watched us like a hawk. She took it as a personal insult if we weren’t as enthralled by Mr. Rochester as she was. So she skipped the notes and conversation, and instead pressed a hand to my back. A little reminder that she was there, I guess.
When we were done with class for the day, we headed back to the suite, but I still wasn’t ready to talk about it.
“SRF?” she asked, but I shook my head. I was still processing, and there were things I wasn’t yet ready to say aloud.
We did homework in her room until dinner, and she let me pretend that nothing had happened, that my afternoon hadn’t been filled with questions I wasn’t sure I wanted the answers to.
I took what Foley said about real tragedy to heart. I knew what she meant, totally got her point. But if my parents were members of the Dark Elite, how could things get worse than that? If they were helping some kind of medical work or research for the DE—if they were trying to help people who were hurting kids—how was I ever supposed to be okay with that?
I had no idea. So I kept it bottled up until I could figure out a plan, until I could figure out the questions to ask, or the emotions I was supposed to feel.
Eventually, we went to dinner. Like I predicted, you know what was worse than Thursday lunch at the St. Sophia’s cafeteria?
Friday dinner in the St. Sophia’s cafeteria.
We stood in line, trays in hand, for a good minute, just staring at the silver dish of purple and brown and white and orange mess, grimaces on our faces.
Without a word, Scout finally grabbed my tray, stacked hers on top of it, and slid them both back into the stacks at the end of the line. “I’m not saying I wouldn’t like to be a few inches taller with, like, crazy long legs, but there’s no way I hate myself enough to put that stuff in my body again.”
I didn’t disagree, but my stomach was rumbling. I’d skipped lunch for my SRF visit. “So what now?”
She thought for a second, then bobbed her head. “Mrs. M,” was all she said, and away we went.
I had no clue what that was supposed to mean. I still had no clu
e when she dragged me into Pastries on Erie, a shop a few blocks down from St. Sophia’s. (Thank God for Friday nights and a respite from the convent . . . at least during the daylight hours.)
One entire wall of the bakery was filled by a long glass case of cakes, desserts, tarts, and cookies of every shape and size. A dozen people stood in front of it, pointing to sweets behind the glass or waiting to make their orders.
“Pastries?” I wondered quietly. “I was hoping for something a little more filling.”
“Trust me on this one, Parker,” she whispered back. “We’re not buying retail today.” She waved at the tall teenager who was dishing up desserts. “Hey, Henry. Is your mom around?”
The boy waved, then gestured toward a back door. “In the back.”
“Is she cooking?” Scout asked hopefully.
“Always,” he called out, then handed a white bakery box over the counter to a middle-aged woman in a herringbone coat.
“Din-ner,” Scout sang out, practically skipping to the beaded curtain that hung over the door in the back of the bakery.
I followed her through it, the smell of chocolate and strawberries and sugar giving way to savory smells. Pungent smells.
Delicious smells.
My stomach rumbled.
“Someone is hungry,” said a lightly accented voice. I looked over. In the middle of an immaculate kitchen stood a tall, slender woman. Her hair was long and dark and pulled into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. She wore a white jacket—the kind chefs wore on television.
“Hi, Mrs. M,” Scout said. “I brought someone to meet you.”
The woman, who was dropping sticks of butter into a giant mixer, smiled kindly. “Hello, someone.”
I waved a little. “Lily Parker.”
“You go to school with our Scout?”
I nodded as Scout pulled out a chair at a small round table that sat along one wall.
“Cop a squat, Parker,” she said, patting the tabletop.
Still a little confused, I took the seat on the other side of the table, then leaned forward. “I thought we were going to dinner?”