“She never told you she lived in a mansion?” Brynn asks, looking back at me from the passenger seat.

“No,” I say. “She actually mentioned living somewhere else entirely. I don’t know why she lied about this, but I intend to ask her. First, we’re going to talk to her father.”

We all get out, and Sydney double-checks that the Taser is still in her purse as we approach the front porch. Marcella and Brynn set their phones to record, and I ready myself for an altercation. We don’t know what’s waiting for us behind this oversized front door.

“This is it,” Marcella murmurs, and holds out her hands. Brynn takes one while Sydney takes the other. I step forward to ring the bell.

There is a shuffle behind the door, the sound of a twisting lock, and then the door eases open. The man standing there is short, with gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses. His cheeks are rosy, his expression polite. He’s wearing a navy sweater over a collared shirt, pleated pants, and shiny gold watch.

“Mr. Goodwin?” I ask.

“Can I help you, my dear?” he replies in a friendly enough way.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out at first. I imagined him as a demon, but instead, he looks like someone’s rich grandpa. Can evil masquerade as a regular person?

“Are you here for—?” He cuts himself off as if suddenly realizing something. He runs his eyes quickly over me and then darts them to Sydney. To Marcella, to Brynn, each time taking in our appearance. His skin turns waxy, and his eyes widen slightly.

Although we look different than we did at the academy, it’s pretty clear that we’re still Innovations girls, especially to an investor.

“Christ,” Mr. Goodwin says, and moves to shut the door in our faces.

Marcella throws herself against the door, getting her foot in before it can close. She knocks it open, and Mr. Goodwin shuffles backward, looking around wildly until he hits the wall under the staircase.

The foyer is massive. There is a grand staircase with two entrances. It’s honestly too much.

“Adrian!” I call, my voice echoing. I wait to see if a guard will run out, but it seems that Mr. Goodwin and his daughter are here alone, safe inside their gated community.

“What do you want?” Mr. Goodwin asks, clearly scared. “Leave me and my daughter alone.”

“That’s rich,” Marcella says.

“How did you know?” Sydney asks, stopping directly in front of him. “When you saw us, what gave it away?”

“Anton … ,” he starts. “Anton contacted me a few days ago. He, uh … He said you’d escaped the academy. He said you were dangerous.”

Brynn laughs, but then she pauses and looks at Sydney. “Are we?” she asks.

“Sometimes,” Sydney says.

But the gravity of his words hits me. “Does Anton know we’re here?” I ask. “In town?” Mr. Goodwin nods, seeming hopeful that this will give us a bond that will keep me from torturing him.

“What else did Anton say?” I demand.

“That you killed a guardian, the doctor, maybe others. He said you were probably here to kill Winston Weeks.”

“Not a terrible idea,” Marcella says.

“And he told me … He said I needed to track you down,” Mr. Goodwin says, his voice desperate. “He said that if I did, he’d forgive my debt. So I asked my daughter if she’d noticed any new girls in town, really pretty ones. She mentioned you. Then I called the school and they gave me your address. But I didn’t see any of you in person. Not until now.”

“You were the man outside our apartment in the fancy car?” I ask.

“You saw me?” he asks, surprised. “I didn’t realize …” When I step closer, he shrinks back again the wall.

It strikes me as odd that this man is so terrified of us, four young girls. The only thing that sets us apart from others is the fact that he knows we’re not human. I doubt he walks around in his normal life cowering from teenage girls on the street.

He’s scared of us because he doesn’t understand what we are, not really. He thinks we’re soulless machines. Programmed killers. Angry robots.

But really, we’re just girls who are sick of being pushed around.

“What debt?” Sydney asks, grabbing the collar of his sweater.

“What?” he replies. This question seems to scare him more than anything.

“What debt did you have to pay Anton?” she asks, irritated. Mr. Goodwin shakes his head no, telling us he won’t answer.

There is motion at the top of the stairs.

“Mena?” Adrian calls, sounding confused. I glance up to see her staring at us surrounding her father in the foyer of her home.

“Adrian,” I reply. “Um … we need to talk to you.”

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“Go upstairs, honey,” her father calls. “It’s okay. I need to discuss something with your friends.”

“Why? ” she asks, even more confused.

“We’re not here to hurt her,” I tell Mr. Goodwin. “We’re just here for information. I think it’s time your daughter finds out what you’ve done.”

He swallows hard, and Sydney releases him, taking a step back.

“Is there a place where we can talk?” I ask, turning to Adrian as she comes down the stairs. “Maybe somewhere we can sit down?”

“And a rope to tie up your father, please,” Marcella says under her breath, turning away. Adrian doesn’t hear her, but she still looks concerned.

“There’s the library,” she says, pointing at a set of sliding white doors.

“Oooh … a library,” Brynn says, smiling at me.

I motion for her to go ahead, and then I grab Mr. Goodwin’s arm and lead him to a chair beside the fireplace.

I try not to get distracted by the room as I walk in, the massive bookcases reaching the ceiling, the intricately carved wood of the chairs, the ornate décor. Okay, it’s lovely.

“Now sit,” I tell Mr. Goodwin, motioning to the chair. He does as I ask. When I move to the couch, sticking close by him, I see him studying me. Fascinated and terrified.

For a split second, I wonder if that’s how Jackson feels when he looks at me sometimes.

“Back to this debt,” Sydney says to Mr. Goodwin, pulling me from my thoughts. “What do you owe Anton?”

“Who’s Anton?” Adrian asks.

A question occurs to me. I look at Adrian. “Why didn’t you tell me you lived here?” I ask. “You said you lived in a small neighborhood near Corris Hawkes.”

She winces. “I do. I mean, I live there with my mom. My … stepmom. Claire,” she clarifies. “I’ve lived with her since they divorced three years ago. In fact, I don’t usually see my dad. Only when …” She looks sideways at him. “Only when my mom gets sick.”

“Your mother’s sick?” I ask.

She nods. “It happens sometimes. She’ll be amazing and great. And then, she’ll be tired all the time. Headaches. Barely able to get out of bed. Dad brings her to a hospital for a few weeks, and then she comes back recharged. But now she’s sick again, so I’m here. She’s resting upstairs until he takes her tomorrow.”