The signature was just a first name—William.

That was it.

The proof of my parents’ lies.

About their jobs.

About their trip.

About whatever they’d gotten involved in, whatever had given the Sterling Research Foundation the ability to pass down dictates about my parents’ relationship with me.

“They lied, Scout,” I finally said, hands shaking—with fear and anger—as I stared down at the letter. “They lied about all of it. The school. The jobs. They probably aren’t even in Germany. God only knows where they are now.”

And what else had they lied about? Each visit I made to the college? To their offices? Each time I met their colleagues? Every department cocktail party I’d spied on from the second-floor staircase at our house in Sagamore, professors—or so I’d assumed—milling about below with drinks in hand?

It was all fake—all a show, a production, to fool someone.

But who? Me? Someone else?

I picked up the envelope again and glanced at the RECEIVED BY mark.

The puzzle pieces fell into place.

“When was the twenty-first?” I asked Scout.

“What?”

“The twenty-first. September twenty-first. When was that?”

“Um, today’s the twenty-fifth, so last Friday?”

“That’s the day Foley received the envelope,” I said, holding it up. “Foley got a copy of this letter the day I got hit by the firespell. The day before I went into the hospital, the day before she came to the hospital room to tell me she was wrong about my parents. That I was right about their research. There’s probably a letter in here to her, too,” I quietly added, as I glanced around the room.

“Foley told you about the genetic research when you came to her office,” Scout concluded. “Then she got the letter and realized she really wasn’t supposed to tell you. That’s why she dropped by the hospital. That’s why she changed her tune.”

I dropped my gaze back down to the letter and swore out a series of curses that should have blistered Scout’s ears. “Can anyone around here tell me the truth? Can anyone not have, like, sixty-five secret motives?”

“Oh, my God, Lily.”

It took me a moment to realize she’d called my name, and to snap my gaze her way. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted in shock. I thought we’d been caught, or that someone—something—was behind us, and my heart stuttered in response.

“What?” I asked, so carefully, so quietly.

Her eyes widened even farther, if that was possible. “You don’t see that?” She flailed her hands in the air and struggled to get out words. “This!” she finally exclaimed. “Look around you, Lily. The lights are on.”

I looked down at the flashlight in her hands. “I’m having a crisis here, Scout, and you’re talking to me about turning on a light?”

I could see the frustration in her face, in the clench of her hands. “I didn’t turn on the light, Lily.”

“So what?”

She put her hands on her hips. “The light is on, but I didn’t turn on the light, and there’s only one other person in the room.”

I lifted my head, raising my gaze to the milk-glass light shade that hung above our heads. It glowed a brilliant white, but the light seemed to brighten and fade as I stared at it—da dum, da dum, da dum—as if the bulb had a heartbeat.

The pulse was hypnotic, and the light seemed to brighten the longer I stared at it, but the rhythm didn’t change. Da dum. Da dum. Da dum.

“Think about your parents,” Scout said, and I tore my gaze away from the light to stare at her.

“What?”

“I need you to do this for me. Without questions. Just do it.”

I swallowed, but nodded.

“Think about your parents,” she said. “How they lied to you. How they showed you a completely false life, false careers. How they have some relationship with Sterling that’s going on around us, above our heads, that gives the SRF some kind of control over your parents’ actions, what they say, how they act toward you.”

The anger, the betrayal, burned, my throat aching with emotion as I tried to stifle tears.

“Now look,” Scout said softly, then slowly raised her gaze to the light above us.

It glowed brighter, and the pulse had quickened. Da dum. Da dum. Da dum.

It was faster now, like a heart under stress.

My heart.

“Oh, my God,” I said, and the light pulsed brighter, faster, as my fear grew.

“Yeah,” Scout said. “It’s strong emotion, I think. You get freaked out, and the light goes on. You get more freaked out, and the light gets brighter. You saw it kind of dims and brightens?”

“It’s my heartbeat,” I said.

“Well,” she said, turning for the door, “I guess you have a little magic, after all.”

She glanced back and grinned. “Twist!”

In no mood for study hall, we found a quiet corner of the main building—far from the administrative wing and its treasonous folders—and camped out until it was over. We didn’t talk much. I sat cross-legged on the floor, my back against cold limestone, eyes on the mosaic- tiled ceiling above me. Thinking. Contemplating. Repeating one word, over and over and over again. One word—maybe the only word—momentous enough to push thoughts of my parents’ secret life out of my head.

Magic.