Winston clicked his tongue. “No, no. I promised to tell you something you would want to know.”

Adrian’s hand squeezed tighter, until he could feel his nails digging into his palm. He’d known better than to trust an Anarchist. He’d known.

He was seconds away from leaping forward and snatching the puppet away from the villain when Winston started to smile. Teasing and sly.

“And I will tell you something you want to know. More than you realize.”

Adrian held his breath.

“You told me that you watched the Detonator kill Nightmare,” said Winston. “That you were there. But … I’m afraid, young Master Everhart, you were mistaken.” His eyes twinkled. “Our precious little Nightmare is very much alive.”

* * *

HE WENT TO THE Council’s offices first, but only Blacklight was available. Adrian supposed he could have told him, as he was as high-ranking as any of the others. But no—he needed to talk to his dads first. They knew the whole story of his search for Nightmare. They knew why it was so important to him.

But according to Prism, Captain Chromium and the Dread Warden were out to dinner with the commissioner of Gatlon City food security and they were not expected back in the office until tomorrow. Though Adrian pressed, she refused to tell him where they had gone—it would not be appropriate to divulge that information, even to him, she said, forcefully apologetic.

So he headed home, teeth grinding the whole way.

Winston Pratt had refused to say more, no matter how Adrian cajoled, or how many of the Anarchists’ belongings he offered as bribes, to the growing annoyance of his counselor. Pratt was not swayed. He had given the information he intended to give, and his lips were now sealed. He’d even made a zipper motion across them to prove his point.

It was so infuriating. To know that he had more information, but was refusing to share it. Adrian definitely would have smacked Pratt on the side of the head a few times if he’d thought the counselor would allow it.

Nightmare was alive.

He had known. Somehow, he had known. She hadn’t been killed by that explosion. She’d sneaked away while they were distracted by the bombs going off in the park. She was still at large.

And there was a chance that he could find her. There was a chance he could find out her connection to his mother’s murderer.

He had been pacing inside the dining room for nearly two hours when the front door finally opened and Hugh’s boisterous laugh echoed through the house. Adrian charged into the foyer. Both of his dads were grinning, but the looks faded when their eyes landed on him.

“Nightmare is alive,” he blurted. “Winston Pratt confirmed it. She wasn’t killed by the Detonator. She’s still out there!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Hugh, holding up his hands. “Slow down.”

Adrian paused to take a deep breath. His dads shrugged out of their jackets as he started again. “When I spoke to Winston Pratt the other day, we made a deal. If I brought him this puppet of his, he would answer one of my questions.”

“Yes, we know,” said Simon. “We had to approve the incentive.”

“Right,” said Adrian. “Well, I got the puppet and today he told me that Nightmare isn’t dead. She tricked us!”

They both stared at him, wool jackets draped over their arms.

“And,” Simon started, “how, exactly, does he know that?”

Adrian rubbed a hand over his hair. “I don’t know. He wouldn’t say anything else, but he seemed certain.”

“He’s been in jail for months,” said Hugh, “with no outside contact. He couldn’t possibly know whether or not Nightmare is alive.”

“I’m sorry, Adrian, but Hugh’s right. He’s just trying to distract you—to distract us. Classic villain technique. Get us looking for one thing over here, while they make plans to attack us over there. We need to stay focused on finding Hawthorn and the remaining Anarchists, not chasing after a ghost.”

“No, but…” Adrian trailed off. His eyes darted between them, and he felt the sudden sting of pity. He rocked back on his heels. He didn’t want to believe them, but he couldn’t explain why he was convinced that Winston Pratt was telling the truth.

Because you want it to be the truth, a voice whispered. His own annoying subconscious.

If it wasn’t true, then the trail to find his mother’s killer was cold again, nothing more than a vague hope that maybe, maybe, one of the other Anarchists might know something. If they were ever found again.

And it would mean that he’d been fooled by a lousy villain. He’d gone to the tunnels, he’d searched through the artifacts warehouse. Could it have been a staged mission, with no prize to gain at all?

“I’m sorry,” Hugh started, but Adrian cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“Don’t be. I … I probably should have thought of all that before I let him get to me. I just…”

“You wanted it to be true,” Hugh said. “We get it.”

“Yeah, well—” Adrian cleared his throat. “How was your dinner?”

Hugh thumped Adrian on the back as he headed for the staircase. “Long.”

“But…,” said Simon, revealing a cardboard to-go box that had been invisible in his hand, “we brought you cheesecake.”

It felt like a small consolation, but Adrian took it.

He trudged down to his bedroom in the mansion’s basement, fork in one hand and dessert in the other. The basement was huge, though still mostly unfinished, as his dads’ efforts to restore the home had been focused on the upper floors. Adrian had dominion over what happened down here, which so far meant he’d put up a few shelves of old action figures and some of his favorite comic drawings, mostly from artists who had been prolific before the Age of Anarchy. There was also his bed, a small sofa, his desk, and an entertainment console with video games and a TV. It wasn’t luxurious, but it was his.

He threw himself onto the sofa. He didn’t know who he was more frustrated with. His dads, for not being willing to even consider that Nightmare might still be alive. Or Winston Pratt, for revealing a potentially fake and almost certainly useless bit of information. Or himself, for believing him. For still believing him, despite the logic of his dads’ words.

He shoveled a few bites of cheesecake into his mouth, but he wasn’t tasting it. His mind was going over the fight at the theme park again. The moment when the Detonator had thrown the bomb at Nightmare and Adrian had seen her try to dodge the blast.

Try—and fail? He wasn’t sure then, and he wasn’t sure now. What he did know was that they hadn’t found her body, or even bits of it, gruesome as the thought was.

Only her mask.

But what did it matter? Even if Winston was right and she was alive, Adrian was no closer to finding her. He had no more clues to investigate. No more leads to follow. He supposed he could dig through all that stuff from the subway tunnels, but just thinking about that gave him a headache. And if the investigators hadn’t found anything useful, why did he think he would do any better?

After tearing through half the slice of cake, Adrian stood up and marched to his desk. He rummaged around until he found a charcoal pencil.

He would sketch for a while. It always helped focus his thoughts, or at least quiet them.

Grabbing a spiral-bound book from the shelf, he sat down and found a blank page. He let the charcoal guide his fingers, scrawling hasty shapes and messy shadows across the paper, until an image began to take shape.

Overgrown ferns. A moss-covered staircase. A cloaked figure haunting the background.

A shiver shook Adrian so hard, the charcoal scratched a sharp line through the landscape, disrupting the vision. Adrian sat up straighter. The figure was turned away and for a moment, his subconscious returned images of the monster that had haunted his nightmares as a child. It had been years since he’d thought of those terrors, but telling Nova about them had stirred up feelings of powerlessness that he would have preferred to keep buried.

But when he took in the drawing in its entirety, he realized that it wasn’t the monster that he’d been drawing. It was the statue.

The statue at City Park.

This wasn’t his dream, it was Nova’s.

Adrian lowered the sketchbook, an idea sharpening in his thoughts. He stared at the closed door that divided his bedroom from the only other finished room in the basement, though “finished” was a subjective term. It had four walls and a ceiling, all covered with drywall, though not much else. No trim, no texture, not even windows.

He stood, clutching the sketchbook as he opened the door. Striding into the darkness, he waved his arm until his hand collided with a thin chain. With a tug, he turned on the bare light bulb in the center of the ceiling.

When they’d first moved in, Adrian had dubbed this space his “art studio,” somewhat ironically. He had drawn himself an easel and a second worktable and a bookshelf for storing his sketchbooks, which was, admittedly, a little crooked. Otherwise, the space remained barren and a bit on the forlorn side.

He turned in a full circle, inspecting the bare white walls.

His eyes returned to the drawing.

Then back up. White space. Emptiness. A canvas waiting to be filled.

He regarded the meager stash of art supplies he’d been hoarding for years, a vision filling his thoughts.

Turning, he strode back through his bedroom and up the creaky stairs. He found Hugh in front of the TV in the living room, having changed into sweats and an old triathlon T-shirt. (He had served as a commentator, not a contestant, which would have been supremely unfair.)

“No more talk about Nightmare tonight,” said Hugh, without looking up from the TV. “Please.” He clicked through channels until he landed on the news.

Adrian scowled. “I wasn’t going to.”

Hugh shot him a disbelieving look.

“I just wanted to ask if it’s okay for me to paint my studio.”

“What studio?”