Mr. Polygraph takes a step closer to Spinelli, who’s blissfully unaware of the traits of the silent predator in front of him. "A school project, huh? That's admirable. Tell me, what have you kids found out so far?" His voice is casual, but it carries the weight of a cross-examination.
Spinelli starts to respond, but Jordan's quicker, cutting across him with a pointed, "Not much. Just what everyone else knows from the news." They're trying to shield him, to keep Mr. Polygraph's probing away from the one of us who doesn't know to lie. Spinelli looks at Jordan, and then looks at me. I try to silently plead with him with my eyes.
Remember, Spindle? You were there when he turned someone's head into flowers. Is your facial recognition bad? Did you just forget?
Agent Evans, still as a statue beside his partner, gives a subtle nod, almost imperceptible. But I know a signal when I see one.
Mr. Polygraph's focus narrows, honing in on Spinelli's notebook. "May I?" he asks, reaching out a hand, but Jordan's quicker, a step between them, a laugh that's too sharp to be genuine.
"Sorry, Agent Parker, but we need it for our report. School rules," they say, and Mr. Polygraph raises an eyebrow. But then he pulls his hand back.
I'm watching Agent Evans, trying to catch any hint, any tell that might give away what he's doing, what he's sensing. But he's a closed book, and if he's reading our emotions, he's keeping the contents to himself.
Spinelli looks between us, a wrinkle of confusion on his forehead. "It's just notes," he says, and I want to cover his mouth, to stop the words that might spill out and give us away.
But it's too late. Mr. Polygraph has that look, the one a shark gets when it's circling. "I'm sure they're very thorough notes. You seem like a diligent student," he says, and I don’t miss the emphasis on 'diligent.'
Jordan's hand is on Spinelli's shoulder, a squeeze that's a clear 'stop talking.' But Spinelli's a talker, it's what he does when he's nervous. "Yeah, I like to get the details right," he says, and I can almost hear the silent alarm bells ringing.
I jump in then, feigning interest in the conversation. "Agents must have to get a lot of details right too, huh?" It's a deflection, a way to pull attention from Spinelli.
Agent Evans shifts his weight, and I catch the slight movement, the way his attention flicks from Spinelli back to me. "Details are our specialty," he says. There's a calm certainty in his voice that fills me with uncertain dread.
Mr. Polygraph’s gaze is a laser, cutting through the pretense, looking for the lie he's sure is there. "So, this project of yours, when is it due?" he asks, a question that has nothing to do with dates. Agent Evans watches, still silent, still analyzing. I wonder what he sees when he looks at us. Fear? Defiance? Desperation?
Jordan's already squeezing Spinneli's shoulder. "We've got time," I say, stepping in front of Spinelli, blocking him, cutting Mr. Polygraph off with a half-truth. "Don't worry about it."
Agent Evans steps forward, his tone suddenly sharp, "What, can the guy not speak for himself? Stop cutting him off. We want to hear what your note-taker has to say." His words slice through the tension, a direct challenge to our charade.
Spinelli's mouth opens, then closes, a trapped look on his face. Mr. Polygraph leans in, his voice deliberate, "We're just looking for a… what's the word… a fruitful conversation?"
He glances to Agent Evans, as if asking for confirmation. "That's the word, right, smart guy?"
"It's your favorite," Agent Evans quips, his face moving like he's rolling his eyes.
The word hangs in the air, and it's like a switch flips in Spinelli. Color drains from his face, his eyes widen, a flicker of recognition flashing across them as he stares at Mr. Polygraph. "Halloween," he whispers, the word slipping out, a quiet gasp of realization.
Jordan's foot nudges against Spinelli's, a silent command to shut up, but it's too late. Mr. Polygraph's head tilts, his brow furrows. "What was that you just said?" His voice is calm, but there's a steel edge to it, the lie-detector in him sensing the thread to pull.
Agent Evans watches Spinelli's panic with a predator's interest. "Why so nervous? What's got you white as a ghost all of a sudden?" His questions are like probes, sharp and precise, and Spinelli looks like he's about to crumble.
I step in, trying to deflect, "He's just not used to this kind of attention. You know, shy." My voice is too high, the words tumbling out too fast.
But Agent Evans doesn't buy it, and he doesn't let up. "Shy, or is there more to it?" He leans in, his gaze locked onto Spinelli, who's now visibly trembling.
Nearby cops have started to glance our way, drawn by the sudden spike in tension. Their hands rest near their belts, an unconscious mirroring of readiness. We're drawing a crowd, and not the kind we want.
Jordan steps up to Spinelli, a shield of bravado. "He doesn't know anything. Just let it go, okay?" They're trying to defuse the bomb that's inches from going off.
Mr. Polygraph looks between us, processing everything that just happened. He doesn't press further, but the silence he leaves behind is loud with suspicion.
The cops are closing in now, their boots crunching on the gravel-strewn snow, their breath fogging up in the cold air as they approach our little standoff. "Is there a problem here?" one of them asks, the question more of a command than an inquiry.
Mr. Polygraph doesn't miss a beat, his voice taking on the smooth cadence of authority. He fishes out a badge, flipping it open with a practiced motion. "Agent Parker," he introduces himself, the badge glinting in the weak sunlight. "And this is Agent Evans," he gestures to his silent partner, who nods curtly. "NSRA internal investigators," Mr. Polygraph continues, his words carrying the weight of officialdom. "Badge numbers 7742 and 5598."
He's good, I'll give him that. If I didn't know better, I'd have believed him myself.
The officer takes a moment to examine the badge, his expression unreadable. "Internal affairs, huh?" he mutters, more to himself than to anyone else.
"My condolences for the tragedy here," Mr. Polygraph says, his voice steady and somber. "It's a difficult day for all of us. We're just ensuring that everything is handled with the respect and seriousness it deserves."
The officer hands back the badge, his posture relaxing slightly. "Of course. I understand. We appreciate the NSRA's cooperation in these circumstances."
Mr. Polygraph offers a solemn nod, his face a mask of professional grief. "Just making sure everything is on the up-and-up."
The cops exchange looks, their initial suspicion waning under the onslaught of Mr. Polygraph's confidence. "Are these kids interrupting anything?" one of the officers says, his voice trailing off as he scrutinizes the badge.
Agent Evans steps in, his demeanor unflappable. "These are just some local students," he says, gesturing to us with a dismissive wave. "Toddler journalists working on a school project. They're fine where they are."
The term 'toddler journalists' stings, a condescending pat on the head that leaves me seething, but it's better than being escorted off the premises. The police seem to take their word for it, their posture relaxing as they step back, giving us space but still watching closely. I remember his burning words - toddler with a wire - and it feels like another precise jab to keep me off-guard.
We're left feeling more alone than before, the thin veil of our cover story hanging by a thread. The agents have saved us from immediate ejection, but the cost is clear. We're now playing by their rules, on their board, and they've just made a very public show of their power. The agents’ assurances to the cops are a band-aid over a bullet wound. It's too neat, too easy, and it leaves a sour taste in my mouth. Spinelli's still pale, his eyes darting between Jordan and me, looking for some kind of anchor in the roiling sea of tension.
Mr. Polygraph looks back at us, his smile tight and calculated. "As I was saying," he continues, as if we hadn't been interrupted, "enthusiasm is to be commended, but safety comes first. We wouldn't want an accident."
Yes, the agents' sudden appearance and smooth handling of the cops are as suspicious as a shark in a swimming pool, but suspicion isn't proof. It doesn't confirm that the Kingdom framed Miasma, just that they're entangled in this mess, which isn't news to us. The real question—whether the Kingdom orchestrated Miasma's fall from grace—remains unanswered. Yet.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
Jordan leans in, their voice low but clear. "Hostile, agents. Are you threatening us? What exactly do you mean by 'we wouldn't want an accident'?" There's a bite to their words, a challenge that's not quite hidden beneath the surface.
Agent Parker's smile doesn't waver, but it's all facade. "Threatening? Of course not. We're all on the same side here, aren't we?" His question is rhetorical, but it's the opening I need.
"Of course we are," I say quickly, meeting his gaze with a confidence I don't feel.
Mr. Polygraph's eyes narrow just a fraction, a twitch at the corner of his mouth. It's almost imperceptible, but it's there.
His lie detector, going off.
Jordan catches on to my play, a quick side-eye that's all the conversation we need. They step up the act, pushing just a bit further. "Like she said, we're all on the same side. You guyses and us guyses." Their voice is steady, well-practiced. Jordan is much better at lying than I am.
The agents exchange a glance, and there's a current of communication there that I can't read. Mr. Polygraph's jaw clenches, just for a second, and I know we've got him. He's questioning himself, his power, trying to reconcile what he knows with what we're saying.
Agent Evans is silent, but his eyes are sharp behind those sunglasses, watching the exchange like a hawk. He hasn't said much, but I can tell he's calculating, assessing the situation with a keen edge that's more intimidating than any of Mr. Polygraph's thinly veiled threats.
Mr. Polygraph finally breaks the stalemate. "I see," he says, drawing out the words. There's a moment where he scrutinizes us, like he's lining up his next shot. "Well, as long as you're just… pursuing the truth." The pause is pregnant with implication, his tone laden with a subtext that's probing and skeptical.
He shifts, just slightly, and I can tell he's not done fishing. "Tell me," he starts, his gaze sharp, "you've been here since the morning, right?" The question is direct, a hook cast out into the open water.
Jordan's poker face is perfect. "That's right," they answer, steady as ever. It's another lie, a small one, but I can see the twitch in Mr. Polygraph's cheek that says he's got a bite.
Spinelli's fidgeting beside me, and I give his arm a reassuring squeeze. I need to keep him quiet and calm, away from Mr. Polygraph's radar.
I jump in, eager to build on the momentum. "Yeah, we came straight here after our first class." It's a blatant lie; we've been all over the place today, but Mr. Polygraph's question was a golden opportunity.
Mr. Polygraph's eyes flick to me, and there's a flash of something like triumph in them. "First class, huh? Must've been an early one." His voice is casual, but it's clear he's on the scent.
I nod, keeping my expression neutral. "We're dedicated," I say with a smile that I hope looks genuine.
Agent Evans is still quiet, but his silence feels heavy, loaded. He's not asking the questions, but I get the feeling he's analyzing every response, every twitch and fidget.
Mr. Polygraph leans in, and I can smell the mint on his breath – a mask for the coffee, perhaps. "And your teacher just let you skip the rest of the day to be here?" he asks, a question that's a little too on the nose.
It's Jordan who answers this time, "We have a very understanding journalism club supervisor. She knows a big opportunity when she sees one."
Mr. Polygraph's eyes narrow just a fraction. "Who's your journalism club supervisor?" he asks directly, his voice smooth like oil, but I can hear the gears grinding behind it.
I scramble for a name, something believable. "Mrs. Thompson," I blurt out. It sounds fake even to my own ears.
"I don't believe you," Mr. Polygraph counters quickly, his gaze sharp and probing. "What school?" he presses.
"Germantown Friends School," I say, trying to sound confident. He already knows where I live. I'm sure he knows the school I go to.
But that's not the reason I'm lying rapid-fire.
He nods, but there's a skepticism in his eyes that doesn't fade. "Germantown Friends School students taking a deep interest in crime scenes… Do you often find yourselves in such unique situations?" There's a weight to his question, a trap waiting to spring.
"We're always looking for interesting stories," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. "Part of why our school paper is so renowned."
"And where do these interesting stories usually take you?" he asks, while Agent Evans takes a single step back, cutting Spinelli in half with his gaze. I can almost hear our poor lanky friend whimpering like a dog.
Jordan jumps in, saving me from having to answer. "All over Philly. You know, covering a wide range." Their voice is steady, but I can see the tension in their shoulders.
"So, 'all over Philly,' but never in places you shouldn't be, right?" Mr. Polygraph's question is direct, a sharpened hook baited and waiting.
Too bad he doesn't realize that his hook is actually, um… It's… It's tangled with… My… hook? And I'm fishing also? This metaphor made more sense in my hindbrain.
"Of course not. We stick to public places, parks, streets…" I respond, trying to sound nonchalant, but there's a pounding in my ears that makes it hard to think. "Never anywhere we shouldn't be. No private property, you know? Haven't even visited city hall yet."
"But never anywhere off-limits. You kids aren't off exploring abandoned buildings, restricted areas?" Mr. Polygraph pushes, his eyes fixed on me.
Snap. A beartrap going shut on his ankles, and he hasn't even realized it's bitten in deep.
I seize the opening he's just unwittingly given me. "Abandoned buildings?" I counter, my tone laced with feigned confusion. "Do we look like we're dressed for urban spelunking? We were talking about our journalism project."
"Where'd that come from?" Jordan follows up, a one-two punch of snark.
He falters for a moment, his confident facade cracking. "I just mean… in general," he stammers, trying to regain his footing in the conversation.
I press on, sensing his discomfort. "That's a pretty specific thing to ask about, don't you think?" I challenge, my gaze steady.
Mr. Polygraph opens his mouth to respond, but no words come out. His face reddens, and I see the anger behind his eyes ready to flare out.
The anger in him conflicting with his guise.
Agent Evans steps in smoothly, his voice calm but firm. "We're just ensuring all aspects of the investigation are covered. No need to read into it."
But the damage is done, and I can't help but feel a surge of triumph. Mr. Polygraph's specific line of questioning, his slip about 'abandoned buildings,' tells me all I need to know.
Jordan joins in, their voice dripping with skepticism. "Oh, we're part of the investigation now? I didn't realize."
Mr. Polygraph recovers slightly, but his earlier confidence has diminished, replaced with boiling fury. "Just making conversation," he says, but his voice lacks conviction, replaced with frustration. He stiffens his back up and squares his shoulders. There's a moment's pause, and then, his face flattens a little in some form of defeat. "Just be sure to stay out of trouble. We wouldn't want you getting in over your heads," he says, his tone a mix of warning and challenge.
I nod, feigning acceptance of his explanation, but internally, I'm putting the pieces together. His floundering response, the too-specific inquiry - it all points to one thing: they know more about us than they should, more than they could without keeping tabs on us.
"Don't worry, Agent Parker. We know our limits," Jordan replies, a knowing glance shared between us. "Will that be all?"
Agent Evans finally moves his gaze from Spinelli over to Jordan and I. He sweeps through us, and then grabs Mr. Polygraph by the wrist before he can launch into another interrogation. "We're done here. Have a productive day, kids," he says, although Mr. Polygraph looks almost flabbergasted. That's it. Conversation over. Can he smell our victory? The little cheers in my heart?
Mr. Polygraph scowls at me. "You three stay safe. We'll be in touch."
I can't hide my smile. "I bet,"
Mr. Polygraph and Agent Evans start to back away, their roles played out for now, but the threat lingers in the air like a bad smell, like rotting fish. We watch them go, each step they take feeling like a small victory. As their car pulls away, I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. Jordan looks at me, a mix of relief and worry in their eyes.
"We did it," I say, but my voice is flat. It doesn't feel like a win. It feels like we've just bought ourselves a little time.
Jordan sits on a dry patch in the snow, butt on the curb.
Spinelli, who's been silent through most of the exchange once he realized that Agent Parker killed a man in front of him, just with sunglasses on and a nicer suit, finally speaks up. "What just happened?" he asks, confusion written all over his face.
I give his shoulders a pat. "Patience, young one. All will be revealed in time."
----------------------------------------
Back at our hideout, the mood is a mix of tension and triumph. Spinelli's been bouncing his knee the entire taxi ride back, a clear sign he's been holding back a storm of questions. Once we're safely inside our aluminum-foil-lined Faraday cage room, away from any prying eyes or ears, it's like uncorking a bottle.
"Alright. What just happened?" Spinelli bursts out the moment the door closes behind us. "That guy, he's the one from the warehouse, right? The one who… who did that thing? But what was the rest of it? Why are you guys smirking like we just won?"
Jordan leans against the wall, arms crossed. "Yeah, that was him. Mr. Polygraph," they confirm, their voice low.
I start pacing, the adrenaline still coursing through my veins. I can't hide my smile. "His power tells him when someone's lying. That's why he was asking those weirdly specific questions."
Jordan adds, "Think about it, Spinelli. How would he know to ask us about abandoned buildings? We were having a perfectly cordial, if tense, conversation about being journalism club students. I'm sure he was digging for info about our whereabouts, but he ended up talking too much."
Spinelli's eyes widen in realization, the pieces clicking into place. "But how would he know to ask about abandoned buildings? That doesn't make any sense."
Jordan and I both stare at him a little bit. I hear the hamster wheels turning. Then, I watch the eureka moment happen in real time. "OH! THEY'RE SPYING ON US!"
Jordan smiles and ruffles his hair. He looks extremely pleased. "So, it's not the NSRA, it's… his group? Does this change much? I think we suspected them anyway, right?"
I shake my head. "It changes everything. Knowing it's the Kingdom spying on us, not the NSRA, it narrows down our list of suspects and gives us a direction to push in. And - it almost certainly means that the Kingdom is the group that framed Miasma."
"And it means we have a picture of them impersonating federal officers. Just FYI," Jordan adds, pointing to my camera. "Might be useful,"
The weight of the revelation hangs in the air like a floating elephant. Spinelli sits down at the plastic table, his light weight barely even making it creak. He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration and realization. "So, what's our next move? We can't just sit here knowing they're onto us."
Jordan leans against the wall, their expression thoughtful. "We keep investigating. We follow this lead. The Kingdom's involvement isn't just a coincidence. They're deeply tied to whatever's going on."
I nod in agreement. "We need to be smart about this. Careful. We've got an advantage now, but we're playing a dangerous game. One wrong move, and we could be walking into another trap. They already turned the public against Miasma in one fell swoop even without any coherent evidence."
"Last thing we need is a manhunt for some juvenile murderers," Jordan quips, blowing their bangs out of their face with a puff of air.
Spinelli slumps into a chair, his body sagging. "Are we in danger?"
"We're always in danger," I reply, but there's a steely determination in my voice. "That's what being a hero is all about,"