Page 120 of Shades of Silver City

If Archer’s right, and my dad created dreamdust, does that mean Arlo sent someone to steal his journals? So he could get more information from the drug’s original creator?

“I bet he glamoured my dad, Archer. I’m telling you, I know my dad. He was a good guy.”

His features pinch together, and he gives me a sad look. “Arlo is a new owner, Tasia. He wasn’t there when your dad worked—”

“We don’t know that. Like you said, there are no coincidences. And Arlo has a sketchy past. If it’s coming out now, it’s because he wants it out there. There’s a reason dreamdust is back on the streets now after all this time.”

“Why does Arlo want the dust?” Godric mutters as he cuts through someone’s yard to navigate us around a traffic jam. “Why your dad’s journals? If he was the one searching.”

“Because he’s looking for the original formula,” I surmise. “You said it yourself; this batch is different. I mean, look at the chaos it wreaks.”

The sirens grow louder, and a low, rumbling hum starts resonating through the SUV. Bright beams of light shine through the windshield. Three steel vehicles are rolling toward us. They’re cold-looking, with reinforced windows and tires designed for rough terrain. A mounted turret looms atop the square frame, and I shudder. What the hell could they possibly use that for?

Instinct has me ducking down below the windows, but the vehicles shoot past us toward Splendor Hall.

“You’re okay, Tasia,” Archer says, rubbing my back in small circles. “You’re with me. I got you.”

Scathe whines, putting his paw on my leg.

I sit up straight in my seat and close my eyes, willing my heart to settle down. It’s as if it beats to the rhythm of chaos these days.

That thought sparks remembrance of something my dad said in his journal.

The city’s heart beats to the rhythm of forgotten songs…

My dad’s words play on repeat in my mind. If the journals hadn’t been stolen, I’d comb through the pages again. Read for anything I might’ve missed.

“Wait,” I whisper, remembering that I took a photo of one of the pages.

I pull out my phone and search for the photo I took.

Dad’s neat handwriting stares back at me.

The city’s heart beats to the rhythm of forgotten songs, but the symphony lies within. Remember, all that glitters is not silver. I shall lay bear the truth in the end.

Dad’s writing is straightforward throughout the rest of the journal. If this wasn’t his handwriting, I’d almost think it was written by someone else. Something seems off about it…as if it’s some sort of puzzle.

Like I told Archer the other day, the first line could be a roundabout reference to me, but I don’t understand what it might mean.

The second line is an ancient proverb…implying that not everything is what it appears. Sometimes looks are deceiving.

And the third line… He’ll lay bare the truth? It sounds like he’s admitting he’ll share—

Wait.

I reread the final line my dad wrote. I shall lay bear the truth in the end.

In Dad’s entire journal, I don’t remember seeing a single word misspelled. He was a meticulous man. A perfectionist with an eye for detail.

“Archer,” I say, frantically tapping his leg. “Look.” I point to the misspelled word. “He wrote b-e-a-r instead of b-a-r-e.”

Archer squints at the page. “You think it means something?”

“It’s out of character for him.” I take a breath, calming my racing pulse. “His handwriting here is just as neat and tidy as the rest of the journal. It doesn’t appear rushed or sloppy, so I don’t think it’s an accident.”

The car rolls to a stop.

My head snaps up, and I notice we’re at Archer’s house.

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