"In the kitchen, honey," Mom calls back. "We need to talk."

  Those four words never herald anything good. "We need to talk" is universal parent-code for either "you're in trouble" or "something terrible has happened." I pause in the entryway, mentally cataloging recent infractions that might have been discovered. Nothing comes to mind, which means this is probably about something terrible. Or my parents have a spycam in the Music Hall, which is its own kind of terror.

  I dump my basketball and hoodie on the bench by the door and make my way to the kitchen, each step heavier than the last. Maybe it's just some minor family drama. Maybe Pop-Pop Moe is sick. Maybe--

  The scene in the kitchen stops my spiral of catastrophizing. Mom and Dad are at the table with Grandma Camilla, who's dressed in one of her designer pantsuits, silver hair perfectly coiffed despite the humid July weather. No one looks grief-stricken or angry. They look... determined.

  "Sam," Mom says, gesturing to the empty chair. "Join us."

  I slide into the seat, eyes darting between them. "What's going on? Is everyone okay?"

  "Everyone's fine," Dad assures me, though the crease between his eyebrows suggests otherwise. "Physically, at least."

  "Okay..." I draw out the word, waiting for someone to elaborate.

  Mom takes a deep breath. "Maya Richardson came to the library today."

  The words land like a stone in my stomach. I think of Patriot's visit just minutes ago, his thinly veiled threats. "What did she want?"

  "To intimidate me," Mom says simply. "She made some... implications about budget cuts, program eliminations. All very carefully worded, of course."

  "Because of me," I say, not a question. The pieces click into place with sickening clarity. "Because of what I've been saying about her."

  No one contradicts me. Dad reaches over and puts his hand on mine, warm and solid. "This isn't your fault, Sam."

  "Isn't it?" I pull my hand away, clenching it into a fist beneath the table. "I'm the one who's been investigating her. And now she's threatening Mom's job? How is that not my fault?"

  "Because Richardson is the one making threats," Grandma Camilla interjects, her tone sharp and precise as a scalpel. "She's the aggressor here. Not you."

  I blink at her in surprise. My maternal grandmother has always been a mystery to me – I mean, the first time we met was when I was in the hospital like two years ago, and then like twice since. Reading people is hard. Reading Camilla is not possible.

  "That's..." I struggle to find the words. "Thank you, but--"

  "No buts," she cuts me off. "I didn't raise my daughter to cower before bullies, and she certainly hasn't raised you that way either."

  Mom gives her a look that carries years of complicated history. I can read the response in her face - "I'd contest that," but what comes out is "Thank you, Mother."

  "So what now?" I ask, looking between them. "If Richardson is targeting Mom because of me, then I need to back off, right? Stop investigating her?"

  The silent exchange of glances around the table makes my heart sink. I mean... Look, there's other bad guys to deal with. We can focus on Rogue Wave. Or just the locals. Leave the Kingdom to more experienced hands.

  "Actually," Mom says carefully, "I've decided to take a more... direct approach."

  "What does that mean?"

  "The anti-vigilante bill that Richardson is pushing? It's going before committee next month. There will be public hearings in Harrisburg." She straightens her shoulders. "I'm going to testify against it."

  The words don't compute at first. "You're what?" I finally manage.

  "I'm going to testify," she repeats, more firmly this time. "As a concerned citizen. A taxpayer. A voter."

  "And a librarian," Dad adds. "Someone who works with young people every day."

  "And as a mother," Mom finishes, her eyes holding mine. "A mother who believes in her daughter's right to help people, even if others don't understand how or why she does it. You know, hypothetically, should my daughter be some sort of... vigilante. My hypothetical, nonexistent vigilante daughter."

  I stare at her, speechless. This isn't happening. Mom doesn't do things like this. She follows rules. She stays under the radar. She worries about me drawing too much attention. She's been supportive of my superhero activities, sure, but always with that undercurrent of concern, of caution. What happened to the woman who spent hours researching the legal implications of my JLUMA?

  "Why?" I finally ask.

  "Because it's the right thing to do," she says simply. "Because this bill isn't just about you - though you're certainly part of it. It's about civil liberties. About setting a dangerous precedent." A familiar fire lights in her eyes, one I've seen in the mirror, on my once-a-week gaze. "And because Richardson needs to understand that she can't intimidate me or my family."

  "But..." I struggle to articulate the chaotic swirl of emotions. "What about your job? What about--"

  "Your mother is not without resources," Grandma Camilla interrupts. "Or support."

  I glance between them, confused. "What does that mean?"

  "It means," Dad explains gently, "that your grandmother has offered to help if there are... professional consequences for your mother's testimony. Your grandfather, too, although he's out getting dessert right now."

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  "You mean if Richardson gets her fired," I translate bluntly.

  "If it comes to that," Mom acknowledges. "Though I hope it won't. The only reason I can do this is because of the resources our family has accumulated that other people who would be more affected don't have. Hopefully by now I've raised you well enough to know that this wouldn't stop with just you. Or even kids with superpowers in general."

  My thoughts race, trying to process all of this. The implications. The risks. The fact that my family is willingly stepping into the crosshairs of the Kingdom of Keys.

  "I don't understand," I admit. "You've always been so careful. So worried about me drawing attention. And now you're going to testify? Publicly? With your real name?"

  Mom's expression softens. "I know it seems out of character."

  "It seems insane," I correct her. "Richardson isn't just some politician, Mom. She's an ex-superhero. She probably killed her campaign rival. She's dangerous."

  "Which is precisely why someone needs to stand up to her," Grandma Camilla says, a steely edge to her voice. "And not just in a mask and cape."

  I flinch slightly at the dig, though I'm not sure it was intentional. "It's not that simple."

  I glance back and forth between Camilla and my Mom. How much does she know? How much did my parents tell her?

  Grandma Camilla looks at me and rolls her eyes, as if to say, come on, I'm not stupid.

  "No, it's not," Mom agrees. "But sometimes the most effective resistance happens through official channels, through the system itself."

  "The system that Richardson is manipulating?" I challenge.

  "Systems can be used against those who corrupt them," Dad points out. "That's what your mother's trying to do."

  I look at him, surprised by his support. Dad's always been the more cautious of my parents, the one who frets and plans for worst-case scenarios. "You're okay with this?"

  "Am I worried? Absolutely," he admits. "But I'm also proud. And I believe your mother can make a difference in a way that... complements your approach."

  "When did you decide this?" I ask Mom, trying not to begin hyperventilating.

  "Today," she says. "After Richardson's visit."

  Patriot's earlier warning about my family suddenly takes on new urgency. "Richardson already knows, doesn't she? She suspects you might do something like this. That's why she came to the library."

  Mom's eyes narrow slightly. "What makes you say that?"

  I hesitate, debating how much to share. "Patriot confronted me today. At the basketball court. Warning me about 'spreading rumors' and mentioning consequences for my family."

  The atmosphere in the kitchen shifts instantly. Dad's posture stiffens, Mom's expression hardens, and even Grandma Camilla straightens in her chair.

  "Richard Johnson approached you?" Dad asks, his voice tightly controlled. "In civilian clothes?"

  I nod. "About forty-five minutes ago. He was not subtle about his warnings."

  "What exactly did he say?" Mom presses, librarian-mode activated. Details, chronology, evidence.

  I recount the conversation as accurately as I can, watching their reactions. Dad's growing anger. Mom's analytical focus. Grandma Camilla's calculating gaze.

  When I finish, there's a moment of heavy silence.

  "He threatened you," Dad says flatly. "A grown man, a so-called hero, threatened a sixteen-year-old."

  "Not explicitly," I hedge. "It was all very... carefully worded." Much like Richardson's threats to Mom, I realize.

  "It sounds to me like he was warning you," Grandma Camilla points out. "But he's such a dense lummox that it came out as a threat. What a maroon."

  "That doesn't make it acceptable," Mom says firmly. "And it certainly doesn't change my mind about testifying. If anything, it confirms we're on the right track."

  I wonder if he threatened us because of this, or because of something else? Was it me, or my mom? Are he and Maya on the same team, or working at cross-purposes? I look at her with new eyes. There's a determination in her face I've rarely seen before, a certainty that reminds me, suddenly and sharply, of Liberty Belle. Not in appearance - obviously - but in that core of steel beneath the calm exterior.

  "You're really doing this," I say, still struggling to reconcile this version of my mother with the one I've known my whole life.

  "I am," she confirms. "And I wanted you to know because it affects you too. The press might make connections. People might ask questions."

  "Our story," Dad adds, "is simply that we're concerned about civil liberties and the precedent this bill would set. Nothing about investigations or suspicions about Richardson specifically."

  I'm still trying to process everything when another thought hits me. "What about your job, Mom? The library? If Richardson is already making threats..."

  "I've been documenting everything," she assures me. "And we have security cameras. I don't believe they record audio, but I've already asked my colleagues to make sure we have a copy of today's footage backed up. People will see that Maya came in, and that I testified against her pet bill, and, should something happen, that she moved to defund the library she just visited in her district."

  She smiles, a little sharp, almost snaggletoothed. "I have a good union."

  The level of preparation stuns me. They've thought this through more thoroughly than I expected. Than I give them credit for.

  "So what now?" I ask, looking between them.

  "Now," Dad says, "we all keep doing what we're doing. Your mother prepares her testimony. We'd... Still like you to keep extracurriculars at the minimum. The environment isn't safe. Those friends of yours at the detective agency, we've sent them an email and we'd prefer they handle things from here."

  "We understand that if we tried to stop you, you'd just get sneakier. So all we can do is ask politely that you... don't. I don't want to ground you again. And definitely no funny business when school starts in a month," my Mom reminds me.

  "And I provide backup where needed," Grandma Camilla concludes, reaching for her designer purse. "Starting with dinner. I assume none of you have cooked anything yet?"

  The abrupt change of topic throws me, but Dad laughs. "Not yet, Camilla. We were a bit preoccupied."

  "As I suspected." She pulls out her phone. "Italian or Thai?"

  Just like that, the family war council transitions to dinner plans. Mom starts clearing some papers from the table. Dad gets up to fetch plates. The surreal normalcy of it all makes my head spin.

  "Wait," I say, not ready to let go of the bigger conversation. "Aren't we going to... I don't know, coordinate? Make plans? Figure out how to protect each other?"

  Mom pauses, hand on a stack of documents. "Of course we are, Sam. But not on an empty stomach." There's a gentleness in her voice that contrasts with the steel I saw earlier. "This isn't a one-night strategy session. It's an ongoing process."

  "And speaking of process," Dad adds, pulling glasses from the cabinet, "your grandfather should be joining us shortly. He stopped to pick up some files from his storage unit."

  "Pop-pop is involved too?" I ask, wondering just how many family members are being drawn into this.

  "Come on, Sam," my Dad replies, non-answering.

  Grandma Camilla finishes ordering dinner on her phone, then fixes me with a penetrating look. "You seem shocked that your family is capable of taking action, Samantha."

  "I'm not shocked," I protest weakly. "Just... surprised."

  "Don't be," she says simply. "The acorn doesn't fall far from the tree. Where do you think you got your stubbornness? Certainly not from Benjamin."

  My Dad and Camilla stare at each other for a second. Knives clash against knives. Clang!

  "Okay," I say finally, a strange mix of emotions – pride, worry, determination – settling in my chest. "So we're doing this. All of us."

  "We are," Mom confirms. "And meanwhile, we live our lives. We do our jobs. We play basketball with neighborhood kids. We don't let Richardson think she's disrupted our normalcy."

  "Even though she has," I point out.

  "Especially because she has," Grandma Camilla corrects. "Never let the opposition know they've rattled you, Samantha. That's the first rule of confrontation."

  Before I can press for more, the front door opens, and Pop-pop Moe's voice calls out, "I brought dessert!"

  The moment passes. Dad goes to help Pop-pop. Mom finishes clearing the table. Grandma Camilla checks her manicure. And I sit there, still processing the seismic shift in my understanding of my family.