The next two days pass in a blur of frantic activity. Jordan and I throw ourselves into our investigation with a desperate intensity, knowing that time is quickly running out. Every lead, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, is pursued with dogged determination. We're like bloodhounds on the scent, except the scent keeps disappearing and reappearing in random places and we're not even sure what we're smelling anymore.

We start early on the first morning, meeting at the Music Hall before the sun has even fully risen. Jordan's already there when I arrive, hunched over their laptop with a mug of coffee that's more cream and sugar than actual coffee. They look up as I enter, their eyes ringed with dark circles.

"You look like crap," I say by way of greeting.

Jordan snorts. "Speak for yourself, Shark Girl. You look like you got into a fight with a hair dryer and lost."

I run a hand through my tangled mess of hair, wincing as my fingers catch on a particularly stubborn knot. "Yeah, well, I didn't exactly get much sleep last night. Too busy thinking about all the ways this could go horribly wrong."

Jordan nods, their expression grim. "Join the club. I've been up all night trying to dig up anything I can on Richardson's finances. It's like trying to untangle a plate of spaghetti with chopsticks."

I peer over their shoulder at the screen, which is filled with rows and columns of numbers that might as well be written in ancient Greek for all the sense they make to me. "Any luck?"

Jordan shakes their head. "Nothing concrete. She's got her fingers in a lot of pies, that's for sure. Real estate, tech startups, charitable foundations… but nothing that screams 'supervillain lair' or 'secret criminal empire.'"

I sigh, slumping into a chair next to them. "So what's our next move?"

Jordan cracks their knuckles, a determined glint in their eye. "We go old school. Hit the streets, talk to people, see what we can dig up. You up for some good old-fashioned gumshoe work, partner?"

I grin despite myself. "Let's do it."

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Our first stop is the neighborhood where Richardson's campaign headquarters is located. We spend hours walking up and down the streets, talking to anyone who will give us the time of day. Shop owners, street vendors, random passersby - we leave no stone unturned.

"Excuse me, ma'am," I say, approaching a woman walking her dog. "We're doing a school project on local politics. Do you know anything about Maya Richardson?"

The woman looks at me suspiciously. "Aren't you a little young to be out on your own?"

I force a smile, trying to look as innocent and non-threatening as possible. "Oh, my mom's just around the corner. She's letting me do the interviews myself. For independence, you know?"

The woman's expression softens. "Well, isn't that nice. Maya Richardson, you say? Oh, she's a lovely woman. Always donating to local charities, helping out with community events. Did you know she funded the renovation of the local playground?"

I nod, trying to hide my disappointment. It's the same story we've heard a dozen times already. Richardson, the philanthropist. Richardson, the community pillar. Richardson, the saint.

"Thank you for your time," I say, turning away with a sigh.

Jordan's waiting for me around the corner, their expression hopeful. "Any luck?"

I shake my head. "Same old, same old. Either Richardson's the best thing since sliced bread, or people don't know anything about her at all."

Jordan kicks at a pebble on the sidewalk, sending it skittering into the gutter. "This is getting us nowhere. We need to try something else."

I nod, my mind racing. "What about her office? Maybe we could… I don't know, sneak in after hours or something?"

Jordan's eyes light up. "Now you're talking my language. But we'll need a distraction…"

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The next day, we switch tactics. Jordan suggests we try dumpster diving - literally going through the trash outside Richardson's campaign office to see if we can find any incriminating documents.

"This is disgusting," Tasha mutters, holding a napkin over her nose as we root through a dumpster behind the office. "And probably illegal."

"Only if we get caught," I reply, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "Besides, trash is considered abandoned property. We're not technically doing anything wrong."

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Jordan snorts. "Tell that to the judge when we're arrested for trespassing and… I don't know, garbage theft?"

I'm about to reply when something catches my eye. "Wait, guys. I think I found something."

I pull out a crumpled piece of paper, carefully smoothing it out. It's a receipt for a large cash deposit at a local bank. The amount is… substantial.

"Holy shit," Jordan breathes, peering over my shoulder. "That's a lot of zeros."

Tasha frowns. "But is it illegal? Politicians deal with a lot of money, right? Campaign donations and stuff?"

I chew my lip, considering. "Maybe, but this much cash? It's suspicious, at least. We should-"

I'm cut off by the sound of a door opening nearby. We all freeze, hardly daring to breathe.

"Who's out there?" a gruff voice calls. "This is private property!"

We don't stick around to explain ourselves. We bolt, scrambling out of the dumpster and running as fast as we can down the alley. It's not until we're several blocks away, gasping for breath in a park, that we stop to regroup.

"Well," Jordan pants, doubling over with their hands on their knees. "That was… exciting."

Tasha collapses onto a nearby bench, shaking her head. "You guys are going to get us all arrested, you know that?"

I can't help but laugh, the adrenaline still coursing through my system. "Maybe. But at least we found something. It's not much, but it's a start."

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That afternoon, I find myself standing outside Richardson's campaign office, my heart pounding in my chest. The blonde wig itches, and the makeup feels heavy on my face. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves.

"You've got this, Sam," Jordan's voice comes through the tiny earpiece they rigged up for me. "Just remember what we practiced."

I nod, even though they can't see me, and push open the door. The campaign office is bustling with activity, volunteers bustling about with stacks of flyers and phones ringing off the hook. I approach the receptionist, trying to look confident.

"Hi, I'm Sarah from Temple University's journalism program," I say, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue. "I was hoping to speak with Mrs. Richardson for a profile piece we're doing on local candidates."

The receptionist looks harried, barely glancing up from her computer. "Do you have an appointment?"

I falter for a moment. "Uh, no, but-"

"Then I'm afraid Mrs. Richardson isn't available," she cuts me off. "She's very busy with the campaign. You can leave your contact information and someone will get back to you if there's an opening in her schedule."

I open my mouth to argue, but Jordan's voice in my ear stops me. "Don't push it, Sam. We don't want to draw too much attention."

I force a smile, thanking the receptionist before turning to leave. As I'm heading towards the door, I nearly collide with someone entering. I look up, an apology on my lips, and freeze.

It's Richardson herself.

She smiles at me, her expression warm and charismatic. "Oh, I'm so sorry! Are you alright?"

I nod, my mind racing. This is my chance. "Actually, Mrs. Richardson, I was hoping to speak with you. I'm Sarah, from Temple's journalism program. We're doing a profile on local candidates, and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?"

Richardson's smile doesn't falter, but I see something flicker in her eyes. Recognition? Suspicion? I can't tell. "Of course, Sarah. I always have time for aspiring journalists. Why don't we step into my office?"

As I follow her, I hear Jordan's voice in my ear, sounding panicked. "Sam, what are you doing? This wasn't part of the plan!"

I ignore them, my heart pounding as Richardson closes the office door behind us. She gestures for me to sit, taking a seat behind her desk.

"So, Sarah," she says, her voice smooth as silk. "What would you like to know?"

For the next twenty minutes, I ask her questions about her campaign, her policies, her vision for Philadelphia. She answers each one with practiced ease, her responses polished and rehearsed. I try to steer the conversation towards more sensitive topics - her business dealings, her connections in the city - but she deftly deflects each attempt.

Finally, feeling desperate, I decide to take a risk. "Mrs. Richardson, there have been some rumors about your involvement with local organized crime. Would you care to comment on that?"

Nothing flashes across her face - I'm watching. She laughs, the sound light and dismissive. She's prepared.

"Oh, Sarah. I've heard those rumors too. They're completely baseless, of course. Just the kind of mudslinging you often see in local politics. I'm focused on serving the people of Philadelphia, not engaging in ridiculous conspiracy theories."

I open my mouth to press further, but she stands, effectively ending the interview. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I have another appointment. It was lovely meeting you, Sarah. I look forward to reading your article."

As she ushers me out of the office, I feel a mix of frustration and defeat. I didn't get anything useful, and worse, I have a sinking feeling that she saw right through my disguise.

Once I'm a safe distance from the campaign office, I yank off the wig, my hands shaking. Jordan's voice comes through the earpiece, sounding worried.

"Sam? Are you okay? What happened in there?"

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. "I don't know, Jordan. I think… I think she knew who I was. The whole time."

There's a long pause before Jordan replies. "Shit. Okay, let's regroup at the Music Hall. We need to figure out our next move."

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The next day, we're back to pounding the pavement. We've got a list of Richardson's known haunts - coffee shops, restaurants, the gym where she supposedly works out. We spend hours staking out these places, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, maybe overhear something useful.

But it's like she's a ghost. Everyone we talk to has seen her at some point, but no one seems to know when she'll be back. We wait for hours outside her favorite cafe, but she never shows.

"This is useless," I mutter, slumping against a wall. We've been sitting on this bench for three hours, and the only thing we've accomplished is getting sunburned. "She's probably holed up in her campaign office, getting ready for the election."

Jordan nods, looking equally dejected. "Yeah, you're probably right. But what else can we do? We're running out of time."

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "I don't know. Maybe… maybe we should try talking to some of the other candidates? See if they know anything?"

Jordan gives me a skeptical look. "You really think they'd tell us anything? We're just a couple of kids."

"We're not just kids," I snap, more harshly than I intended. "We're… we're trying to do the right thing. To protect the city. That has to count for something, right?"

Jordan's expression softens. "Yeah, I guess it does. Alright, let's give it a shot. Who's next on the list?"

I pull out my phone, scrolling through the names. "Uh… looks like there's a guy named Frank Martinez holding a rally in Fairmount Park this afternoon. Want to check it out?"

Jordan nods, pushing themselves to their feet. "Lead the way, Shark Girl."