Dad's spaghetti isn't fancy. It's not artisanal or gourmet or whatever other buzzwords food blogs would use. It's the kind of pasta that comes in a blue box, the sauce from a jar that he doctors up with extra garlic and some dried herbs that have probably been in our cabinet since before I was born. The meatballs are pre-made, from the freezer section, heated up in the microwave before being tossed into the sauce for the last few minutes of simmering.

  But holy shit, does it smell amazing.

  Steam rises from the pot as Dad drains the pasta in the sink, the starchy cloud momentarily fogging up the kitchen window. The sauce bubbles lazily in its pan, thick and red with little islands of melted cheese he sprinkled in "for extra richness." The garlic bread – just grocery store Italian bread split and smeared with butter, garlic powder, and more of those ancient dried herbs – is turning golden brown in the oven, the smell mixing with the tomato and garlic to create that perfect Italian-American food perfume that makes my mouth water automatically.

  Mom sets the table while Maggie and I wash our hands. By the time we sit down, Dad is serving up heaping piles of spaghetti onto our plates, the noodles glistening with olive oil, the sauce ladled generously on top. He's grated some parmesan – the kind from the green canister, not the fancy stuff – and it melts slightly as it hits the hot pasta.

  "Dig in before it gets cold," Dad says, sliding into his seat.

  I twirl a massive forkful, watching the strands wrap around the tines, catching bits of meat and sauce in the process. The first bite is exactly what I need – simple, comforting, familiar. The pasta is maybe a little overdone, the sauce a touch too sweet from the jarred base, but it's perfect in its imperfection. This is the taste of family dinners, of normalcy, of the life I sometimes forget still exists alongside all the superhero chaos.

  "So good," Maggie mumbles around her own mouthful, and I realize she's piled her spaghetti with extra cheese, creating a small mountain of parmesan that's slowly melting into the sauce.

  "Ben's spaghetti got Sam through her shark teeth adjustment period," Mom says with a smile. "For a while, it was the only thing she could eat without making a complete mess."

  "Mom," I groan, but there's no real embarrassment behind it.

  "You should have seen her trying to eat a burger," Dad adds, tearing off a piece of garlic bread. "It was like watching a nature documentary."

  Maggie snorts, nearly choking on her pasta, and I kick him lightly under the table.

  Between bites, I decide it's time to circle back to our earlier conversation. "So, about the data analysis thing..."

  Mom and Dad exchange another one of those looks. Dad takes a sip of water, buying time, then sighs. "You have specific people in mind, don't you?"

  "Devonte and Akilah," I admit. "They were on the Young Defenders with me – Playback and Puppeteer. They've been apprenticing with a private investigation firm for the past few months. I guess because of Akilah's... got a medical thing that means she's barred from becoming a govvie superhero, this is the next best thing for her."

  "Chambers and Woo Investigations," Mom says, surprising me with her knowledge. "On Diamond Street, near Temple. They specialize in corporate fraud cases, mostly."

  I blink at her. "How did you—"

  "I read the news, Sam. They were mentioned in that expose about the pharmaceutical price-fixing last month." She twirls her fork in her pasta. "Seems like a reputable firm."

  "They are," I say. "I trust both of them with my life. And, uh, I mean, I have, several times. Even if we don't talk that much."

  Dad chews thoughtfully. "And you think they'd help without... escalating things?"

  "That's what they do now," I point out. "Gather information, analyze patterns, build cases. Not running around in costumes fighting supervillains."

  "Mostly," Maggie adds quietly.

  "Mostly," I concede with a half-smile. "But the point is, they're trained for exactly this kind of work now. And they already know about the Kingdom, about Richardson, about everything. We wouldn't have to catch them up."

  Mom dabs at a spot of sauce with her napkin. "I'm not opposed to getting professional help with this. But I do have conditions."

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Of course she does. "Like what?"

  "One: we go with you. I want to meet these people and their mentors in person." She holds up a finger, then adds a second. "Two: we do this through proper channels. No sneaking around, no vigilante nonsense. This is a consultation with professional investigators."

  "Three," Dad adds, "you share everything they find with us. No filtering information because you think we'll worry."

  "And four," Mom continues, "this doesn't change the terms of your grounding. You're still not patrolling, not investigating on your own, not putting yourself in danger."

  The conditions are exactly what I expected, maybe even a little more lenient. "That's fair," I agree. "So I can set up a meeting?"

  "Yes," Mom says. "For this weekend. Your father and I are both off on Sunday."

  "I'll text them tonight," I say, trying not to sound too eager. "See if they're available."

  "Don't get your hopes up too high," Dad cautions. "They might not be able to help, or they might need resources we don't have."

  "I know," I say, though privately I'm already envisioning Devonte and Akilah cracking the encryption like it's a kindergarten puzzle, revealing all the Kingdom's secrets in spectacular fashion. I still don't exactly know what encryption is - Jordan's explanations have all flown totally over my head - but if anyone can solve it, it's them, right? "But it's worth trying."

  The conversation shifts to other topics after that – school, finals, the upcoming summer break. Normal family dinner talk, punctuated by the scrape of forks against plates and the occasional request to pass the garlic bread. By the time we finish eating, the white car and all it represents has faded to the background of my concerns, not forgotten but temporarily overshadowed by the simple pleasure of a family meal.

  Maggie helps clear the table while I text Akilah and Devonte, careful to keep my message vague but urgent enough to warrant a quick response. Within minutes, Akilah replies: "Sunday at 1pm works. Come to the office. Bring Jordan remotely if possible. Don't share details over text."

  "They're in," I announce to the room. "Sunday at one."

  "Perfect," Mom says, loading the dishwasher. "That gives us time to prepare questions and organize what we know."

  The rest of the evening passes quietly. Maggie and I attempt to study for her history final, though we spend more time reminiscing about past missions than actually reviewing the material. At eight sharp, the doorbell rings – Mr. O'Brien, right on time to pick up Maggie.

  "Remember, we never talk about the warehouse," she whispers as we hug goodbye. "As far as they know, I was never there."

  "Secret's safe with me," I promise. "See you Monday at school."

  After Maggie leaves, I head upstairs to my room, pretending I don't notice Mom checking all the locks and Dad casually glancing out the windows every few minutes. The white car hasn't returned, but its brief presence has left a lingering unease in our household routine.

  Kate still isn't home when I go to bed. Her absence is both a relief – no awkward conversation to navigate – and a concern. Is she out as Soot? Is she okay? Or is this just still house-shopping with her dad? Apartment-shopping? Despite... everything, I still want her to be safe.

  Sunday arrives with unexpected sunshine after a week of light and dreary May rain. Dad drives, with Mom in the passenger seat checking Geeps Maps even though we all know the way to Temple. I'm in the back, fidgeting with the sleeve of my jacket, my stomach fluttering with a mix of anticipation and anxiety.

  "Remember," Mom says as we approach our destination, "we're just consulting. No commitments, no rushed decisions."

  "I know, Mom," I say for what feels like the hundredth time since breakfast. "We're being careful."

  Diamond Street is quieter than usual for a Sunday afternoon. Most of the storefronts are closed, their security gates pulled down. Temple students move in small groups, backpacks suggesting they're headed to or from study sessions. A few locals sit on stoops, enjoying the rare sunshine, occasionally smoking weed as un-hiddenly as possible.

  "There it is," Dad says, slowing as we approach a narrow storefront wedged between a laundromat and a cell phone repair shop. The sign is small and understated: "Chambers & Woo Investigations" in simple black lettering against a frosted glass background. Below that, in smaller text: "Corporate, Civil, and Personal Inquiries."

  "Looks very... professional," Mom comments, sounding mildly surprised.

  "What were you expecting? A neon sign saying 'Superheroes R Us'?" I can't help but tease.

  "Frankly, with your crowd, I never know," she replies dryly.

  Dad pulls up to the curb across the street. "I'll find parking and join you in a minute," he says. "Keep an eye out for... well, anything unusual."

  Mom and I cross the street, approaching the unassuming entrance. Through the glass door, I can see a small reception area – a desk, a few chairs, some potted plants that have seen better days. Nothing about it screams "superhero headquarters." It looks like exactly what it is: a modest private investigation office.

  "Ready?" Mom asks, her hand on the door handle.

  I take a deep breath, mentally preparing for the reunion with my former teammates. It's been months since I've seen Devonte and Akilah in person. We've texted, stayed connected through the group chat, but that's not the same as face-to-face conversation.

  "Ready," I confirm.

  As Mom pushes the door open, a small bell chimes above our heads. The reception area smells faintly of coffee and old paper. Behind the desk, a middle-aged woman glances up from her computer.

  "Can I help you?" she asks.

  Before I can answer, a door to the back office opens, and Akilah steps out. Her hair is different – shorter, with purple highlights I've only seen in profile pictures until now. She's wearing glasses I know she doesn't need and a button-up shirt that makes her look older, more professional than the young adult I remember.

  For a moment, we just stare at each other, the months of separation stretching between us like a physical thing. Then she smiles, that familiar lopsided grin that suddenly makes her look exactly like the Akilah I know.

  "Sam," she says, and somehow packs a world of meaning into that one syllable. "Right on time. Come on back – Devonte's got the system all set up."