I barely sleep that night. Every time I close my eyes, I see Victor's face - not angry or threatening, just watching me with that analytical gaze. I keep replaying our conversation, the way he categorized me like some kind of scientific specimen. What traits did I get from him? What does it mean that I can punch without hesitation, just like he can?

  Mom doesn't come out of her room the next morning. Dad says she called in sick to work - the first time she's done that in years. He makes pancakes and we eat in awkward silence, the folded paper from Victor burning a hole in my pocket.

  "She'll be okay," Dad says finally, pushing his plate away. "She just needs time."

  "How much time?" I ask. "Because we've had sixteen years of not talking about him, and that doesn't seem to have helped much."

  Dad sighs. "It's complicated, Sam."

  "So un-complicate it for me. Tell me something about him. Anything."

  He stares into his coffee mug for a long moment. "He wasn't always... like that. Your mom says when she was very young, he was different. More engaged, I guess. Something changed when she was around six or seven."

  "What happened?"

  "She doesn't know. He just got worse, and then he went to the hospital, and then he got different, and then a couple years later he just left, and it was her and Camilla and her brother for a while," Dad shrugs. "That's all I know."

  It's not much, but it's more than I had yesterday.

  After breakfast, I head to the library for my shift. Director Hayes gives me concerned looks - Mom must have texted her about taking a sick day - but doesn't ask questions. I'm grateful for the distraction of the Morrison Collection, losing myself in scanning decades-old newspaper clippings about Philadelphia's first superheroes.

  During my lunch break, I pull out my phone and search "Victor Blanc Philadelphia." Nothing relevant comes up. I try "Victor Blanc trucker," "Victor Blanc arrest," and various other combinations. The results are either unrelated or behind paywalls asking for credit cards and age verification.

  One site shows me a tantalizing preview: "Victor Blanc (72) - Criminal Records Found in 3 States" before demanding $29.95 for a full report. I stare at it for a long minute before closing the browser. I don't have that kind of money, and using Mom's card would be crossing a line I'm not ready to cross.

  I text Tasha: Any way to search criminal records without paying?

  Her response comes a few minutes later: Public records are technically accessible but super time-consuming to track down. Why?

  I hesitate, then reply: Family research project. Nothing urgent.

  When I get home, the house feels like it's holding its breath. Mom is up, moving around the kitchen with mechanical precision, making dinner like everything's normal. But her eyes are red-rimmed, and she flinches when I drop my backpack on the floor.

  "How was the library?" she asks, her voice too bright.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  "Fine," I say. "Made good progress on the Morrison files."

  She nods, chopping carrots with unnecessary force. "That's good. That's... good."

  I watch her for a moment. "Mom, are you okay?"

  "I'm fine," she says immediately. "Just tired."

  Another lie to add to the collection.

  Dinner is a strained affair. We all pretend everything is normal, talking about work and school and the Morrison Collection. Nobody mentions Victor. Nobody mentions the fact that Mom keeps glancing at the front door like she expects him to burst through it at any moment.

  After dinner, I retreat to my room and pull out the folded paper again. Room 118. Residence Inn. Until Sunday.

  Today is Wednesday. He'll be gone in four days. If I want answers - real answers, not the sanitized version my parents might eventually give me - I need to act soon.

  But not tonight. Mom is too raw, too vigilant. She'd notice me slipping out. And I have responsibilities - school tomorrow, then my library shift. I can't just drop everything because my mysterious grandfather suddenly appeared.

  I spend Thursday watching Mom and Dad circle each other cautiously, both pretending everything is fine while exchanging worried glances when they think I'm not looking. Mom insists on driving me to school and picking me up afterward, suddenly concerned about my safety in a way she hasn't been since the Rush Order incident.

  During my free period, I try searching for Victor again, this time through the school library's database systems, just in case it has anything interesting. I find exactly one relevant hit - a small notice in a trucking industry newsletter from 2014 mentioning "V. Blanc" receiving an award for 30 years of accident-free driving. It's something, at least. Evidence that he exists beyond our living room, and is good at driving a truck.

  By Friday afternoon, I've made my decision. I finish my library shift at 5:30, text Mom that I'm getting dinner with Lily to discuss Bloodhound stuff, and head downtown. It's not entirely a lie - I did tell Lily I might be late, and we do need to talk about patrol schedules. But first, I have a stop to make.

  The bus ride to Center City takes longer than expected, delayed by weekend traffic. I find myself rehearsing what I'll say to Victor. What questions I'll ask. What I'll do if he refuses to answer. I'm not afraid of him, not physically at least. But there's something unsettling about his emotionless assessment, the way he categorized me like he was checking items off a list.

  The Residence Inn is nicer than I expected - a tall building with a sleek lobby and uniformed staff at the front desk. I hesitate at the entrance, suddenly aware of how I must look in my jeans and hoodie, coming to visit a man whose last name I learned only days ago.

  What am I doing here? This is crazy. I should turn around, go meet Lily like I told Mom I would. Forget about Victor Blanc and his cats and his truck and his unsettling observations about me.

  But I don't turn around. I walk through the automatic doors and across the lobby to the elevators. Nobody stops me or asks who I'm visiting. I press the button for the first floor - room 118 would be on the first floor, right? - and try to look like I belong here.

  The elevator doors open onto a carpeted hallway with numbered doors stretching in both directions. I turn right, following the room numbers until I reach 118. There's a "Do Not Disturb" sign hanging from the doorknob.

  For a long moment, I just stand there, staring at the door. Behind it is a man who shares my DNA but knows nothing about me. A man my mother fears so much she shakes at the mention of his name. A man who might have answers about why he's suddenly appeared in our lives after sixteen years of absence.

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I knock. Three sharp raps, then silence.

  Nothing happens for so long that I wonder if he's out. Maybe he took his cats for a walk, if that's even a thing people do. Maybe he's already left town, despite saying he'd be here until Sunday.

  Then I hear movement inside. Slow, deliberate footsteps approaching the door. A pause. The sound of the peephole cover being moved.

  Another pause, longer this time. Then the click of the lock being turned.

  The door opens, and Victor Blanc looks at me with those same emotionless gray-blue eyes. He's wearing the same clothes as before, or perhaps identical ones. Behind him, I can see a hotel room that looks barely lived in - bed neatly made, no personal items visible except for a folded newspaper on the desk.

  "Samantha," he says, with a slight nod, as if he's been expecting me.

  "It's Sam," I correct him automatically.

  "Sam," he acknowledges, stepping back from the doorway. "Come in. The cats are under the bed."

  So lock the kids up safe tonight

  Shut the eyes in the cupboard

  I got the smell of a local man

  Who's got the loneliest feeling

  And either way you turn, I'll be there

  Open up your skull, I'll be there

  Climbing up the walls

  Climbing up the walls

  Climbing up the walls