Rogan had plucked him out of his hidey-hole. Now Bug had filled out, his dark brown hair was neatly cut and clean, and he wore decent clothes. He seemed calmer. His paranoia had receded. He could carry on a conversation without twitching. Napoleon, also clean and a good deal plumper, snored by his feet on a little couch, upholstered with red fabric and Île-de-France motif.

“You’re leaving?” Bug asked.

“Yes.”

“Don’t leave,” Bug said.

“I’ve got to go.”

“What do I tell him when he comes back?”

Did Rogan tell him to keep an eye on me? “Tell him whatever you want, Bug.”

I crossed the floor, turned the corner, and descended the staircase. The lights were on. Half a dozen of Rogan’s ex-soldiers, four men and two women, carried on a quiet conversation. It died when they saw me.

I recognized Nguyen Hanh, an Asian woman who worked as Rogan’s head mechanic, and Michael Rivera, Rogan’s second-in-command. About mid-thirties and Latino, Rivera had a great smile. He usually smiled after he shot someone.

“Are you leaving?” Rivera asked.

“Yes.” Kill me, somebody.

“Why?” Nguyen asked.

“Because I’m going home.”

“But the Major isn’t back yet,” Rivera pointed out.

“I realize that.”

“You can’t leave. He said he would be right back, and we’re supposed to keep you safe while he’s gone. If you leave, we can’t keep you safe,” Rivera said.

“You can still keep me safe. I’m going to my house across the street.” I pointed through the wide open double door at the warehouse. “You never close these doors anyway, so you can watch me walk twenty yards to my house.”

“He’ll be in a bad mood if you leave,” a dark-haired man said.

Rivera looked at him for a second, then turned back to me, smiling up a storm. “Maybe you could wait for him?”

“No, I really can’t.”

I walked straight at Rivera. He stepped aside, I marched through the doors and headed toward the warehouse.

“It’s because of the Sherwood woman,” another male voice said behind me.

“Of course it is,” Nguyen said. “I said when she first showed up she’d be trouble.”

I crossed the street, punched the code into the lock, entered the office, and locked the door behind me. I had had one hell of a day. I had left my phone in my car, my gun in Rogan’s car, and I had no underwear. Walking around without underwear felt odd. Being without my phone was even more odd. There was probably some sort of deep conclusion to be derived from the fact that losing my phone disturbed me more than losing my underwear.

This wasn’t me. I always had my phone and my gun. And underwear.

I eased the interior door open. The warehouse was quiet. A lonely light glowed at the very end of the hallway in the kitchen. With four teenagers in the house, someone was always raiding the fridge during the night, and we usually left the light fixture over the table on for the midnight snackers. Tonight I heard no voices.

It was a few minutes past eleven, and on a school night everyone would be in bed by then, but we’d decided to keep everyone in until the trials. Where were they?

I tiptoed down the hallway, took a right, cleared another short hallway, and peeked out at the Hut of Evil, a small building within the building where Bern reigned supreme with all his equipment. Faint voices floated down to me.

“. . . right . . . he’s on top of the building . . .”

“Got it.”

Right. Team Baylor was making the world safe from alien zombies one cyber shot at a time. At another time, I would get right in there and join them, but tonight wasn’t that night.

I leaned a little more and caught a glimpse of Bern. He wasn’t wearing his gaming headset. His face, illuminated by the glow of the monitor, looked haggard, the eyebrows furrowed. He was focused on whatever was in front of him at the cost of all else. Probably going through the contents of Rynda’s computer, looking for the file the kidnappers wanted.

I turned around and padded into the kitchen. When he found something, he would tell me.

My cell phone lay on the kitchen table, illuminated by the lamp like a lure. Cornelius must’ve brought it in. Ha! I picked it up. One thing recovered.

A missed call. I flicked the icon and listened to the voice mail.

“This is Fullerton at Scroll, Inc. Please call me at your earliest convenience, no matter the hour.”

All the muscles in my stomach tensed into a tight hard ball. It was past eleven. He said as soon as possible. I called the number.

He picked up on the first ring. “Hello, Ms. Baylor.”

“Hello, Mr. Fullerton.”

“The analysis of your DNA is completed. Your familial relationships are verified, and you are clear for trials.”

I exhaled.

“We’ve received two requests for your basic profile. Under the circumstances of the impending trials, I felt I had to notify you as soon as possible.”

“Let me guess, House Tremaine?”

“That’s one of them.”

“Denied.” Victoria wouldn’t be getting her claws on any of my information.

“Noted.”

“Is the second from House Rogan?” What do you know? Rogan did care about the genetic match after all.

“No. House Shaffer.”

“House Shaffer?” Of the three truthseeker Houses in the US, House Tremaine was the most feared, because my evil grandmother did business with the brutality of an axe murderer. House Lin had the most members. House Shaffer was the middle of the road and I knew very little about it.

“Yes. Should I deny or accept the request?”

“Why would they be asking about my genetic profile?”

“There are numerous reasons,” Fullerton said carefully.

“You’re an expert and this is brand-new to me. I’m just asking for a guess.”

“The basic profile can be used for a number of things. It doesn’t contain enough information for in-depth planning. However, it is very useful in eliminating the possibility of familial relationships.”

Oh. “Do you feel they are trying to make sure that we’re not related to House Shaffer?”

“That would be my expectation. Truthseeker talents are very rare. As a gesture of goodwill, they’ve made their basic profile available to you, should you choose to peruse it.”

“Have you examined their profile?”

“Yes. House Baylor and House Shaffer are not related.”

I pondered it. If I didn’t grant their request, they would wonder if I’m some sort of illegitimate relative. If I let them have access to the basic profile, they would quickly realize that I wasn’t anyone’s love child and leave us alone.

If only it would be that easy. The block in Vincent’s mind was put there by a truthseeker.

I felt like I was playing a game of chess blind.

“Let them have access to our basic profile.”

“As you wish.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure, Ms. Baylor. Have a lovely evening.”

I hung up. Too late for that.

What I needed now was a nice long nap . . . I turned. Mom was leaning in the doorway, her arms crossed.

I had no underwear, but I was wearing sweatpants. She couldn’t possibly see through my sweatpants and ask me where my underwear was and why I was sneaking into the house in Rogan’s clothes.

“What was that about?”

“Another truthseeker House wants access to the summary of our records. Fullerton thinks they want to rule out the possibility of a familial relationship.”

“What do you think?”

“A summoner attacked Rynda tonight.”

“Cornelius told us.”

“I sensed a block in his mind. It was put there by another truthseeker.” I leaned against the table and crossed my arms too. “Brian’s kidnapping is tied to the conspiracy to create New Rome. Vincent, the summoner, told me that whatever ransom they want from Rynda is connected to her mother, and her mother was in this conspiracy up to her eyeballs. We also know that when the conspiracy first started to show itself, with Adam Pierce trying to put together pieces of an artifact which would make him powerful enough to burn down the city, the location of the artifact segments was entrusted to a certain family. Their minds were shielded with a protective hex. A truthseeker had managed to peer under that hex, just like I had done, to get the information Adam needed.”