By Friday, I've established a rhythm. School in the morning, finish that, then library afternoons for the Morrison Collection, and evenings for Belle's notebooks. It's almost like having two homework assignments running in parallel, except one of them involves digitizing historical superhero materials and the other involves untangling my dead mentor's investigation into a supervillain prison that my grandfather helped build. You know, normal teenage stuff.

  I've created a spreadsheet to track Belle's notebooks - date ranges, main cases, key observations. It's already helping me see patterns I missed when I first inherited them. Belle wasn't just documenting individual villains; she was mapping systems, identifying pressure points, tracking how institutions responded to powered crime.

  "How's the inventory coming?" Mom asks on Saturday afternoon as we pass each other in the library stacks. She's been swamped with coalition work, darting between the reference desk and her office for conference calls with parent groups in other states.

  "Six notebooks cataloged, eleven to go," I reply. "Director Hayes thinks the legal review might take a few weeks."

  "At least," Mom confirms. "But I'm impressed you're sticking with it."

  I shrug, trying to seem casual. "It's important. Belle was documenting stuff nobody else was paying attention to."

  Mom gives me a thoughtful look. "Sometimes the most valuable historical perspectives come from people working outside the system."

  "Like a parents' coalition?" I suggest.

  She smiles. "Exactly like that."

  The weekend passes in a blur of scanning, cataloging, and note-taking. By Sunday night, I've finished eight of Belle's notebooks and am deep into the Morrison Collection's section on early metahuman legislation. The parallels between the 1990s debates and current ones are striking - the same fears dressed in different language, the same arguments about safety versus freedom recycled for a new generation.

  Monday morning, my phone chimes with a message from Lily as I'm walking to school.

  Lily: Another quiet night in Fishtown. Kingdom territory practically deserted. Even the Crescent had minimal security.

  I type back: Weird. Anything on cameras?

  Lily: Standard patrols but reduced numbers. Like they're winding down operations.

  This matches what Tasha reported yesterday - dramatically reduced numbers in Kensington, and several Kingdom-affiliated businesses closing early or not opening at all. It could be good news - the Kingdom retreating for greener pastures after losing the market utterly to Rogue Wave - but I'm not stupid. I know better than that.

  Maggie: Saw something strange on patrol - three unmarked vans making deliveries to that warehouse on Delaware Ave, then leaving empty. Same vans came back three hours later with different drivers.

  Tasha: Similar activity near the airport. Equipment being moved, but no obvious pattern. Could be legitimate business.

  I stare at these messages, trying to connect dots that might not actually be connected. Are we seeing the Kingdom winding down operations, or preparing for something bigger? With Richardson's legislation moving forward and the hearings approaching, it would make sense for them to lie low. But this feels different, in a way I can't articulate other than a painful, annoying gut feeling.

  Amelia: Everyone maintaining distance protocol. No direct engagement until we understand what's happening.

  I send a thumbs-up emoji, relieved that at least the team is being cautious. The last thing we need is another confrontation when we're still recovering from the previous ones. I feel mostly fine, but I get this uncomfortable feeling that things are about to explode any second now. Or maybe that's just because there hasn't been a crisis in two weeks? Maybe I'm just used to chaos.

  School drags by with its usual mix of marginally interesting classes (Physics) and mind-numbing tedium (everything else). I catch myself doodling maps in my English notebook, trying to visualize the pattern of Kingdom activity reduction across Philadelphia. There's a shape to it, a deliberate contraction, but I can't quite figure out what it means.

  "Ms. Small? Care to share your thoughts on Gatsby's relationship with Daisy?"

  I look up to find Mr. Jeffries and twenty-seven pairs of eyes staring at me. "Uh, toxic codependency masked by nostalgic idealization?" I offer, having absorbed just enough of the assigned reading to fake competence.

  Jeffries raises an eyebrow but moves on to his next victim, and I return to my map-doodling with slightly more discretion.

  By Tuesday, I've cataloged ten of Belle's notebooks and am starting to see connections between her earliest cases and her final investigations. She had concerns about Daedalus from the beginning - not just about rehabilitation failures, but about the facility's design and management. The more I read, the more I realize she was piecing together something bigger than individual cases, something systemic.

  Tasha's evening update adds another piece to our Kingdom puzzle:

  Tasha: Three suspected Kingdom fronts closed "for renovations" this week. Corner bodega at 5th and York, laundromat on Aramingo, cell phone repair shop in Fishtown. All shut down within 48 hours of each other.

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  Lily: Just coincidence?

  Tasha: Maybe. But they're all supposedly owned by different people on the city business registry. Weird coincidence.

  I stare at my phone, unease growing. The Kingdom is coordinating something, but what? And why now, with the hearings less than a week away?

  Wednesday morning dawns gray and drizzly, matching my mood as I trudge to school. The tracker around my wrist hangs on me like an extremely annoying caterpillar. As I pass through the security checkpoint, Officer Nguyen barely glances at me - I've become just another face in the daily student procession.

  At lunch, I receive a text from Mom:

  Mom: Pop-pop Moe is coming for dinner tonight. He's helping your father with some house projects. Good timing for your questions?

  I stare at the message, my heart rate quickening. I've been planning how to approach Pop-pop about Daedalus, but having it happen tonight feels suddenly immediate. I text back:

  Me: Perfect. Thanks for the heads up.

  The afternoon at the library is both endless and too short. I'm scanning a 1997 policy brief about the Pivot Protocols, trying to put together puzzle pieces in my head. The earliest, abortive attempts at supervillain prisons. Test chambers that broke within months, if not weeks.

  I scan the document carefully, noting a reference to "external security consultants with specialized knowledge of metahuman containment." There's no specific mention of which consultants, but it's clear the government was bringing in outside expertise beyond the architectural and engineering firms officially contracted for the project.

  By the time I head home, my mind is racing with questions. How involved was Pop-pop in Daedalus's design? What were the "ethical concerns" Belle mentioned? And who were these external security consultants with specialized knowledge? Did they end up working on Daedalus? Did Pop-Pop ever meet them?

  At home, I have an hour before Pop-pop arrives. I decide to check the Young Defenders notebook that I've been avoiding, if only to clear my mind before the more important conversation ahead.

  The notebook is thinner than the others, with "YD" scrawled across the cover in Belle's precise handwriting. Inside, it contains profiles of each Young Defender - our powers, our backgrounds, our training progress. I flip to the section labeled "S. Small" with a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

  The first entry is dated August 13, 2023:

  "While patrolling in Northeast Philadelphia, encountered young metahuman (14-15 yrs) with enhanced sensory abilities. Subject identified internal bleeding from my stomach through scent alone - extraordinary precision. Have arranged meeting with parents to discuss Young Defenders initiative."

  I remember that day vividly - playing basketball with friends, Belle joining our pickup game, my blood sense alerting me to the coffee-ground texture in her stomach. I had no idea what it meant at the time, just that something was wrong.

  The next entry, dated August 15:

  "Meeting with Small family productive. Parents cautious but reasonable. Father exhibits systems-thinking approach, mother more protective but pragmatic. S. displays unusual combination of impulsiveness and strategic insight. Potential far exceeds current abilities."

  I pause at that last line. "Potential far exceeds current abilities." What did Belle see in me that I didn't see in myself?

  Further down the page:

  "S. demonstrates remarkable drive to uncover truth, almost compulsive in nature. This could be her greatest strength or her greatest vulnerability, depending on how it's channeled. Will require careful guidance to develop discipline without dampening instinct."

  I swallow hard, Belle's assessment hitting uncomfortably close to home. My "drive to uncover truth" has led me into countless dangerous situations, has strained relationships with friends and family, has literally gotten me shot multiple times. But it's also helped me solve cases, save lives, expose corruption.

  A little further down, two weeks later. Some background check paperwork stapled to the page. I lift the bottom up to reveal the notebook page beneath. "S. Small - M. Small. Not coincidence. Grandfather and granddaughter. Funny little tricks God likes to play."

  I'm still staring at the page when I hear the front door open downstairs, followed by Pop-pop Moe's booming voice greeting my parents. I quickly close the notebook and slide it under my pillow, heart pounding.

  "Sam!" Dad calls up the stairs. "Pop-pop's here!"

  "Coming!" I reply, trying to collect my thoughts. I have to be careful with this. Direct questions about Daedalus might make him defensive, but I need answers about his involvement and what concerned him enough to speak with Belle.

  I head downstairs, hugging my grandfather warmly while my mind races with unasked questions. We chat about school, about Dad's recovery, about mundane family matters while Mom finishes preparing dinner. Pop-pop has brought kugel, which somehow makes the prospect of eating a noodle casserole flavored with cream cheese and cinnamon tolerable. A sentence you would never hear otherwise!

  But as I help set the table, watching Pop-pop joke with Dad about home renovation projects, I can't stop thinking about those notebooks upstairs. About Belle meeting with him multiple times. About "ethical concerns" regarding a prison designed to hold the most dangerous powered criminals in the country.

  Dinner passes with casual conversation, everyone carefully avoiding topics like my recent vigilante activities, Mom's coalition work, or the upcoming hearings. It's like we've all agreed to pretend we're a normal family having a normal Wednesday dinner, as if none of us are involved in potentially history-altering events happening in less than a week.

  After dessert (Pop-pop's kugel lives up to memory), I wait for a moment when Mom steps into the kitchen for coffee and Dad is distracted explaining his physical therapy progress.

  "Pop-pop," I say quietly, leaning closer, "can I show you something upstairs? I found some old documents I'd like your opinion on."

  He gives me a curious look. "Documents?"

  "About Daedalus," I say simply, holding his gaze.

  Something flickers across his face - so brief I almost miss it. His shoulders tense slightly, and he glances toward the kitchen where Mom is pouring coffee.

  "I see," he says, voice carefully neutral. "And this is for...?"

  "It's personal," I reply, no longer bothering with pretense. "I have Liberty Belle's notebooks. She met with you about Daedalus. Multiple times."

  Pop-pop sets down his fork slowly, his expression unreadable. He takes a deep breath, then nods once. "Let's continue this conversation upstairs."

  As Mom returns with coffee, Pop-pop rises from the table. "Samantha's going to show me her, ah, school project. Won't take but a minute."

  "School project?" Mom repeats, looking between us with suspicion.

  "Just something I've been working on," I say vaguely. "Pop-pop's expertise would really help."

  Dad gives me a look that says he knows I'm up to something, but he doesn't interfere. "Don't keep him too long. He's supposed to be helping me plan the backyard renovations."

  I lead Pop-pop upstairs, my heart pounding. This isn't how I planned to approach the subject, but Belle's direct style seems more appropriate than dancing around the truth. As I shut the bedroom door behind us, he takes a seat at my mostly unused computer desk.

  "So," he says quietly, "you have Liberty Belle's notebooks. Now what?"