She goes for the handle.

“Nooo!” Urian shout-whispers.

But he doesn’t have to stop her. Before she can reach the handle, it turns and the door flings open.

“Griffin?” I gasp. “What are you—”

“I was about to do my laundry when I found this”—he shoves a crumpled piece of paper in my face—“in my pocket.”

I pull back, trying to bring the paper into focus—even though I’m pretty sure I know what it is.

“That’s my note,” Troy says, pointing at the paper. “How did you get it?”

Thanks, Troy. That helps.

Griffin is obviously furious. His eyes are all squinty—thankfully focused on Troy at the moment—and his full lips are clamped so tight they look outlined in white “You slipped it into the wrong pocket, genius.”

“There’s no need to get nasty,” I say, defending Troy. It’s not his fault.

Griffin’s blue eyes, burning white-hot, focus on me so intently I’m not sure he even sees anything—or anyone—else in the room. You know that whole protective thing I was thankful for last night? Well, here it is again, lashing out. I try to keep calm by telling myself he’s just worried about me. My getting defensive is not going to improve the situation.

“What is this about?” he demands.

Acutely aware of three pairs of very observant eyes, I slam my palms against Griffin’s chest and push him out into the hallway. He and I have been through enough. We don’t need an audience. “Privacy.”

“Phoebe,” he practically growls.

“You know I got that note pointing me to the record of my dad’s trial,” I point out. When he nods, I explain. “Then I got an e-mail. And another.”

“How many?”

“Five, in all.”

“From who?”

“I’m not sure,” I say. “The sender’s address was blocked.”

“In your Academy e-mail? Not possible.”

“Apparently it is,” I insist, trying not to get annoyed that he doesn’t believe me. Like I would make that up. “I couldn’t get them to print, either. So we asked Urian”—I nod at the door behind us—“for help.”

“What did the e-mails say?”

I explain the content, inching away as his expression grows darker with every word. He looks like he could explode at any second. By the time I finish, I’m pressed up against Urian’s door.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“We weren’t exactly in a sharing mood the past few days,” I say. “Besides, I don’t see why this is such a big deal.”

“I don’t think you should go.”

“Why not? Everyone seems so sure this is some master plot or something.” Like I’m important enough for someone to master-plot against me. “What if it’s just someone trying to help me out?”

Although the fire in his eyes is gone—replaced by an equally intense blank look—and he isn’t moving a muscle, his entire body is practically radiating tension. If Nola were here, she’d probably tell me that his aura is fire-engine red right now. It doesn’t take major deductive or psychic powers to realize he’s upset. And, if it wasn’t my dad we were talking about, I’d probably appreciate the concern.

“Then why all the games?” he replies. “Why not just mail you the record or leave it on your doorstep? No.” He shakes his head. “This reeks of mischief.”

“You’re being ridiculous. ‘Reeks of mischief.’ What are you, a character from Shakespeare? I’m going,” I say, daring him to argue. Which, of course, he does.

“No,” he grinds out, “you’re not.”

“You can’t stop me.” I turn to grab the door handle, but Griffin snags it first, holding it shut.

“Yes I can,” he says, sounding overly alpha male. “I will do whatever I have to do to protect you from harm.”

I want to spin around and chew him a new one. To say that it’s just his Hercules heroic gene that’s making him so protective. But I know that’s not true—not entirely anyway. Besides, I don’t like using that against him, like it’s a tool I can use to win an argument.

Instead, I say softly, “You won’t.” I lay my hand over his on the handle. “Because you would never forgive yourself if you kept me from finding out the truth about my dad.” His hand softens beneath mine, but doesn’t move. “And because you’re afraid I’d never forgive you, either.”

His hand drops away.

Before I turn the handle and slip back into Urian’s room, I say, “Thank you for trusting me.”

At eleven-thirty, I’m leaning against the courtyard wall, trying to stay in the shadows and keep an eye on the two entrances at the same time. All of the classrooms that overlook the courtyard are dark and only the faint glow of moonlight illuminates the smooth stone floor. The tiny pieces of the intricate mosaic at the center shine like those glow-in-the-dark jellyfish we learned about in freshman biology. I can’t make out the design at the moment, but I know from memory that it depicts Plato and Athena—the cofounders of the Academy—locked in a heated debate.

I can just imagine what they’re arguing about. The ideal political state. Ethics and education. Who looks better in a toga.

I stifle a snort at my own joke.