We passed several more closed doors until there was only one room left—open and spilling light into the hall—before a ninety-degree turn to the right. Pressed against the wall, I listened for sound from inside the room, but heard nothing.

So I peeked.

And froze at what I saw. A bed, unmade, with blankets spilling over the edge. A chair, clothes tossed over the back. And a dresser, two drawers open and spilling jeans like a denim spider had tried to crawl out. I might have assumed the room had been searched—in a hurry—if not for the framed photo standing on the dresser. Kori, around fourteen years old, one arm around her younger sister, Kenley, the other around their older brother’s waist.

Kori’s room had been a mess as long as I’d known her. That much clearly hadn’t changed.

“Those were his employees’ rooms,” I whispered as we rounded the corner into another empty hall. “All of them.” We’d shadow-walked into the wrong wing of the house.

The hall ahead held rooms full of books, theater seating and a projection screen, or collections of couches. One room held a pool table and an oak bar. But they were all empty, and at the end of that hall was another right-hand turn, leading to more rooms. This hall was different, though. I could feel it. This hall was populated, and that could only mean one thing.

“The family wing,” Cavazos whispered, and I nodded, having come to the same conclusion.

At the end of this new hall was another set of stairs and a rail presumably overlooking the same great room we’d glimpsed before. And between were six doors on one side of the hall, half open, half closed, and one grand, double set on the other side—obviously the master suite. Closed, thankfully.

We snuck down the hall, on pins and needles, fully aware that any sound could trigger a lockdown and get us all killed. Pulse roaring in my ears, I glanced carefully into each room we passed—most were unused guest rooms—and discovered that Michaela had been right. What looked like normal, if opulent family quarters was actually more of a fortress. The windows each bore decorative but functional iron bars. The ceiling was dotted with recessed lighting—an entire grid of infrared bulbs, no doubt blazing in the nonvisible spectrum of light. And the walls, I’d bet anything, were solid concrete beneath expensive paneling.

Two of the rooms obviously belonged to children—privileged, overindulged children—but both beds were empty. Which I found odd, until a couple of doors later, when I peeked into a plaom lined with shelves full of toys and carpeted in thick rubber mats.

In the center of the room was a big pile of pillows and giant beanbags, illuminated by a huge flat-screen television—was that sixty inches?—glowing with the solid blue screen that shows up after the DVD has run its course. In front of the television, a little boy slept sprawled half over a beanbag three times his size and half over his sister’s tiny legs. They were out cold.

Not ten feet away, a woman slept curled up on a plush leather couch, facing both the kids and the television, a novel open on the floor beneath her outstretched arm.

“Slumber party?” I whispered to Anne, and she nodded.

“Probably in Hadley’s honor.”

“That’s Katherine George,” Meika whispered, pointing to the woman asleep on the couch. “We tried to get her for Isa, but Tower got to her first. Jammer nannies are in high demand among the wealthy.”

Ohhhh. The nanny was the Jammer. No wonder she lived with Tower—she had to be near his children. And while she was Jamming their energy signatures, she’d been Jamming Hadley’s, too. But…

“Where’s Hadley?” Anne asked. There was a third beanbag half-draped with a fuzzy pink blanket, but she wasn’t in it.

Before I could answer, the rush of running water sounded from inside the room, and a moment later, a door squealed open, backlighting a small form in the bathroom doorway. Hadley froze with one look at us, and the blue light from the television lit her face as it cycled through surprise, fear, then blessed recognition. Thank goodness we’d brought Anne.

Thank goodness neither of the other children had to pee.

Hadley opened her mouth, but Anne put one finger to her lips and waved her daughter forward silently, miming tiptoed walking. Hadley nodded, then tiptoed across the room without even a glance at the sleeping nanny. Anne pulled her out of the doorway, then wrapped her in a hug, and even in the dimly lit hallway, I could see the tears in her eyes.

“Are you okay?” Anne whispered, and Hadley nodded, eyes wide and still sleepy. “Good.” Anne hugged her again. “Let’s go home.”

“Who are they?” Hadley whispered, staring up at Ruben and Michaela as we tiptoed back down the hall, and I wondered if she thought this whole thing was a dream. I wondered if she could keep thinking that, and wake up in the morning completely untraumatized.

Then Hadley noticed my gun, extra-long and intimidating with the silencer, and I realized that a little trauma was inevitable. Survival was the goal.

“They’re…” Anne began, as I hid the gun behind my leg, and I watched her struggle for words. It wasn’t the time to explain about Hadley’s parentage and Cavazos and his wife could hardly be called friends. “They’re helping us,” she finally explained, and Hadley only stared up at Ruben—who stared back, openly curious—then squatted to be on her level and stuck one hand out for her to shake.

“Hi. My name is Ruben.”

Hadley took his hand hesitand shook it until Anne started tugging her gently down the hall.