Sam had never had a place he could call home. Wanting that was one of the biggest reasons he was trying to get into college. There were places he'd stayed for a few weeks, or even a few months, but that didn't make them home.

Going back to the Kent farm, though—that was the closest thing to home that he'd ever experienced. Dean had called the Kents in advance to let them know they'd be in town, and Aunt Martha met Sam at the door with a wide smile and a big hug, and she was the closest thing he'd ever had to a mom. It smelled nice in the farm house, earthy and savory and sweet all at once.

Sam suddenly found himself wishing he'd been invited to stay here instead of the mansion. The mansion was nice, and it was roomy, and they would probably have more fun with Lex than doing farm chores, but part of him kind of wanted to do farm chores.

He made up his mind to let it go, though. There was nothing that could be done.

Sam asked Aunt Martha where Clark was, and she sent him out to the barn, where Clark was mucking out stables. On a first glance, Sam didn't recognize him. He was a lot taller than he'd been when they'd last met. He was still actually a bit shorter than Sam himself, but he'd been a head shorter when they'd hung out on the island together.

"Sam!" Clark set aside his pitchfork and jogged forward to pull Sam into a hug.

"Good to see you, Clark," Sam said, hugging back.

Clark stepped back and gave him a look. "You know, you don't have to wait until there's a monster in town to come visit. You're always welcome at the farm."

"I'll keep that in mind," Sam said, though he knew—and hoped Clark knew—he wouldn't be able to take him up on that offer. Not while he still lived under his father. "So, I take it you've heard about Lex."

"Yeah. I still don't get what happened."

"The papers said you saw Lex leaving the bank."

"I don't know what I saw. He looked just like Lex, though." Clark paced a couple of steps. "You guys are thinking shape shifter?"

"Yeah."

Clark shifted his weight a little.

Sam knew that look. "Do you know something?"

"Do shape shifters . . . have green skeletons?"

Sam blinked a couple of times. "What?"

"Um . . ." Clark swallowed hard. "Promise you won't freak out?"

"I'm talking to a guy who can run faster than a race car and . . . also lift one. About a shape shifting monster. Try me." Sam was almost completely certain he wasn't even capable of being surprised anymore.

"Okay, well first off, I'm an alien."

So he was wrong.

Aliens. That wasn't on the list of things they dealt with. Granted, the whole meteor rock mutation thing was also something that only seemed to happen in Smallville, but he was used to every kind of supernatural creature. But aliens?

On the inside, Sam wanted to yell and shout and ask questions. On the outside, he kept his face as expressionless as he could. "Oh," he said. "Wow."

"Yeah. Just found out a few weeks ago when my dad took me down to the storm cellar to show me my spaceship."

"Wow," Sam repeated, because he wasn't sure there was anything else to be said, and if there was, he had no idea what it was.

"And, well, sometimes I develop new powers. Like, I had the strength before the speed."

"O-okay . . ."

"And I just started being able to see through solid objects."

Sam was doing absolutely everything he could to take all of this casually, even as he internally freaked out. "So, what, you saw the shifter's skeleton?"

"It was green. He looked like Lex on the outside, but his skeleton was green."

"Um . . . as far as I know, that's not typical for shape shifters. Not that I've ever, you know, dissected one . . ."

"Could it have been infected by meteor rocks? That's what happened to those, uh, werewolves, that one summer, right?"

"Maybe."

"I'm allergic to the meteor rocks. They make me weak."

Sam swallowed. "Did you feel weak when the shifter was around?"

"He threw me through a window."

"Got it." Sam grimaced. "You're okay now?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." Clark winced. "I'm not sure how I'm going to be able to help in this fight, though. I'm useless against the shapeshifter."

"No, you're the most useful asset we've ever had."

"How?"

"You can identify the shifter." Sam held his hands at his sides. "X-ray me."

"Uh." Clark squinted for a moment at Sam's torso, then his eyes focused back on Sam's face. "You look normal."

"Right. But the shifter could be anyone, Clark. You need to get in the habit of scanning everyone you meet to make sure their skeleton isn't green."

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

"And if it is?"

"Don't say anything. Act normally, but call us as soon as you can. Even better if you can get them to come to the mansion, and Dean and I can deal with it."

"How do you guys usually identify shifters?"

"It's pretty hard. You can see them in security tapes, there's always this sort of camera flare on their eyes, but that's no good for when they show up pretending to be your brother."

"That's happened to you?"

"Not to me, but it's happened. Silver burns them, though. So when we hunt shifters, we'll sometimes cut each other with a silver knife to make sure we're . . . us."

"Uh . . . a knife won't cut my skin."

"Right." Sam shifted his weight. "Well, if you want to keep your secret, we'll have to keep you away from Dean. Because I know he's going to insist on checking all of us every time we meet up."

"Stay away from Dean, scan everyone I see. Got it."

Sam nodded. "And, um . . ." The back of his neck prickled, and his eyes darted toward the open door of the barn. "I think in the future, when we have these kinds of conversations, we should find a more private space. Anyone could walk in and hear us."

"Oh yeah. My dad still doesn't know I told you my secret. He'd kill me."

Sam breathed in to tell him he'd more been talking about the shape shifter overhearing their plans, but that thought got tangled up with all of his questions about why Clark needed to hide his secret from his closest friends, and then he started worrying about how often Clark lied to Uncle Jon, and all that came out of Sam's mouth was, "Okay." And that was the end of the conversation.

They both headed back into the house, where Aunt Martha was waiting for them with some snacks at the table. "So how long are you and Dean staying?" she asked.

"A few days," Sam said. He wasn't totally confident about that—it was always hard to predict how long a hunt could take—but their dad would believe them if they told him the hunt had taken up to a week. Sam was hoping he could convince Dean to stick around a little longer after it was over.

"Where are you staying?" Aunt Martha asked.

"At, um, with Lex."

"Oh." She frowned. "Um, isn't he . . ."

"He has an alibi. He's going to get out of jail."

"Okay." She nodded slowly. "Well, if you end up needing to stay somewhere else, our guest room is open to you."

"I think Dean is pretty happy over there."

"How about you, Sam?"

"I . . ." He squirmed in his seat. She was already going so far out of her way, making snacks for them and everything—

"I wasn't going to bring this up," she said, "but the harvest season has been a little . . . overwhelming, for Clark and Jonathan. We could certainly use a hand if you're up for it."

Sam grinned. He knew she was lying—the chores couldn't possibly be overwhelming for Clark, given his abilities—but she was obviously doing it to make him feel more comfortable. "I'd love to, ma'am," he said.

----------------------------------------

Chloe had just wrapped up her pointless homework when she looked up at the clock. It was already 5:30, which meant she had to start making dinner, because her dad was going to be home in about an hour. She sighed. She didn't mind it most nights, especially since her dad seemed to enjoy his job and he always really appreciated her cooking, but today she really wished she had more time. She still had an article to write for the Torch, and she really wanted to look into the Luthor case. Lex had been seen in two places at once by multiple eyewitnesses—it might as well have been Christmas, for a lover of the strange and unexplained.

Besides, Lex had really seemed to like her Wall of Weird; he was the first person to believe her theories, other than her dad. She doubted Lex was guilty for the bank robbery; it would be nice to help him out. And he seemed to be friends with Clark, too.

She sighed—her homework had taken too long. She wasn't going to have time today. She'd have to hold off on looking into the Luthor case until she had more time.

Just then, Chloe heard the front door open, and her dad calling, "Soup's on!"

She blinked a couple of times, looking again at the clock. He was early. She ran out into the kitchen, where he was setting down bags of Chinese takeout. "Dad?"

"Got a call from the boss on his way back from the jail cell. He was real appreciative of the work I've been doing to keep the plant running while he's been out. Gave me a promotion and told me to take the rest of the evening off."

"Wow." Chloe started taking the boxes of food out of the bags—her dad had picked up all of her favorites. "Um, do you think he's guilty?"

"Of bank robbery? Nah. Not the type." He chuckled. "I'm guessing you have theories."

"Right now, I'm not sure. Kind of torn between some kind of shape shifter, and maybe a perception filter—something that makes people think they saw something they didn't really see?"

He pulled her into a hug with one arm and kissed the top of her head. "That's my girl."

Chloe hugged back with some surprise. "You're in a good mood."

"Yeah, I am. I always feel bad about you having to cook every night. We can afford to get takeout a couple of times a week, now."

"You know, I really don't mind cooking."

"You work too hard. You're fourteen, you should be out with your friends more. And getting more sleep, little missy." He ruffled her hair.

She laughed, dodging away from his hand. "Not likely, with the way you snore!"

"It's like music. Lull you right to sleep." He took a couple of plates out of the cabinet. "Why don't you fix yourself a plate and go work on whatever it is that's on your mind?"

"How did you know?"

"You've got that look."

She grinned and scooped up a few spoonfuls of her favorites. "Thanks, Dad."

"Don't stay up too late!"

"No promises!" she called as she hurried down the hall.

Back in her room with a steaming plateful, Chloe started looking back over articles about the robbery. There weren't a lot of details given, so it was more an exercise in figuring out what wasn't mentioned rather than finding clues in what was. Most reporters were too scared to tell the whole story. Chloe never had that problem when she wrote for the Torch; she really didn't care what anyone else thought about her. Except maybe Clark. But she couldn't start daydreaming about Clark right now; she had work to do.

The article said that Lex had been seen with a gun, robbing the bank. It had a few quotes from eyewitnesses, including one that had seen Clark get thrown through a window—poor thing, she'd have to check in with him later to see if he was okay. One of the tellers had given a statement about how Lex had come in asking her to withdraw his entire account, but then he'd pulled a gun on her. There was no mention of actual evidence beyond that. Chloe was sure they must have tested fingerprints and DNA, but there was no mention of any of that.

She swiveled back and forth in her chair, staring at the article, pondering while nibbling at what was left of an egg roll. She was on the outs with the guys from the fingerprinting lab, because of some other case she'd been trying to figure out a few months back. And she wasn't sure they'd be able to find any DNA. Lex wouldn't have been trying to mail a letter, so they wouldn't have any spit, and he wouldn't have left any hairs behind at the scene.

But maybe he'd had to sign something to get the money. Chloe did know the graphologist that the Smallville PD usually called in. And he owed her a favor. Well, he owed her dad a favor, anyway, and she was pretty sure he'd be happy to help her—they'd always been on good terms.

She went to grab the phone from the living room, where her dad had settled down in front of the TV, and brought it back to her room to dial the number.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Herman? This is Chloe Sullivan."

"Hi, Chloe. What's going on?"

"Hey, I'm calling about the Luthor case."

"Ah. The Luthor case."

She frowned—he sounded frustrated. "I was thinking about doing an article for the Torch and I was wondering if you could give me any insights."

He sighed. "You may be the only person who believes me."

"Oh?" She slid up to the edge of her seat.

"Well, it's a strange case, Chloe. The police are trying to say Luthor disguised his handwriting somehow, but I'm not seeing it. Actually, if I didn't know better . . ."

"What?"

"I would have said the sample was from a teenager."

Her mouth fell open.

"Of course, that wouldn't fly with the police."

"Oh, no, I understand."

"But I'm comfortable going on the record with that information."

"I appreciate it, Herman. Would you be willing to call me if you discover anything else?"

"Sure."

"Thanks so much."

Chloe put down the phone. This case just kept getting stranger.