We were all lounging around the next morning when Thorpe came in. In the days after Stephen returned, I saw less and less of him. He wasn't doing Stephen's job anymore; he was running around and organizing things. I could tell by his brisk pace and the fact that he just barged in that something kind of exchange was about to happen. Apparently, this involved me.

Boo and Freddie cleared out of the way as Thorpe set a fancy leather briefcase onto the kitchen counter. I thought that maybe he'd show me something inside, but I was ushered to the couch instead. I sat down and he sat across from me, shoving sorted papers away from his spot on the coffee table. He placed the briefcase on the floor next to my leg. When I looked back into the kitchen, everyone was gone. My fingers did an awkward little dance in my lap.

"There's been no news?" I ventured.

"No, there's been no sight of either of them reported."

"What about the over government CCTV?"

"Nothing."

It was kind of impossible to be in London (and alive) and avoid the CCTV, but I knew from my time here that nothing was unachievable. With our warm greetings aside, we could focus on more important things. Thorpe straightened his tie. This was the universal getting-down-to-business motion, so I made sure that I was situated in an equally sharp position.

"Well," he said. "I'm here because we need to talk. Your parents, your identity- all of it needs to be straightened out."

"Oh."

I let my shoulders relax a little. It was about time we discussed my poor parents.

"Does this mean I can talk to them?"

"I'll get to that."

He leaned back. I leaned back too so that we were eye level. Thorpe wasn't a huge guy, which was something I remembered only when we were next to each other. He was just someone I processed as a large, foggy mass of intimidation. Our time together last week helped me clear away some of that misinterpretation, but that didn't make him any less shadowy and imposing. His signature Thorpe vagueness was in full swing: the gray hair, suit, and personality. I have to admit that it's grown on me. The only truly unique thing about him was the head-tilting thing he did before speaking- which was what he was doing right now.

"You need a job," he started. Seeing that I wouldn't object, he continued.

"Stephen works with the police, and Callum works in the Underground. Boo is about start a job in the Underground as well. You can either join her-" he produced a pamphlet from the inside of his suit jacket- "or you can do something else. You could do a patrol; wander around and find ghosts. Get rid of the ones that are dangerous. But you would only make about living wage, which isn't the most desirable thing in London."

I wasn't sure how much "living wage" was, but his tone implied that it was, in fact, very undesirable.

"Is there anything else I could do?" I asked.

"You could get police training like Stephen," he offered.

"And about how long would that take?"

"Two years, give or take a few months. Stephen was a special case. My higher-ups were desperate to get him on the field. . ." Thorpe patted around the inside of his jacket again. Realizing that there was no more paper, he stopped and handed me the single pamphlet. It was the one that Boo had a few weeks ago. I flipped through it and nothing seemed very exciting. There were pictures of people pointing flashlights, waving at Tube pedestrians, and statistics on the number of deaths in the Underground every year. Maybe the Underground was Boo's cup of tea, but it wasn't mine. Thorpe sensed my disdain.

"There is another idea I've been working on. I haven't run it by Stephen yet, but I don't think he'd be opposed to it."

"Oh. . ?"

"I could help you set up a telephone line. If regular people had access to this squad's resources, you may be able to locate more violent spirits. There would be duds of course, but then you could safely inform people that they weren't haunted. Something would have to be done about the phone's ability to be tracked. Regulations would have to be set. You probably shouldn't show up at a first-time caller's home with a terminus, for instance. You'd need to verify that they were haunted beforehand and that the ghost posed a threat."

"Wait." I stopped him. "You're suggesting that we have a ghost hunter hotline? Like in Ghostbusters?

"I. . . suppose I am."

"Well, you know Stephen, which is why I'm confused. He would most certainly not be okay with this."

"I'm not proposing now," he said. "When this whole Sid and Sadie thing blows over, you will have the rest of your career to figure out. I'm offering a solution to your dilemma. And Freddie's, if she's interested."

He splayed his palms as if he was presenting something.

"Okay, okay," I said. "I'm not opposed to it. I just think Stephen might be. Plus. . . how would the salary thing work? Would we get a commission pay?"

"No. You're technically a government worker, and this would technically count as a public safety service. I could get your salary raised to something close to Stephen's. As far as your public image goes, you would need to pitch yourselves as a nonprofit business or organization. The more squad members you have, the better, but that's something that will happen over time anyway."

"That sounds fine," I replied, "except Stephen is a bona fide, certified police officer. Unless you want him to go all undercover cop?"

"I think he should decide his own role in this," Thorpe said. He paused to rub his forehead.

"But you're right. It wouldn't be good if someone hired him once, and then later saw him in uniform. I still have to work out the kinks. I need to talk to my supervisor too, and see what he thinks. Nothing is guaranteed."

He reached for his briefcase and sat it in his lap. The latches clicked as he undid them, but there was no cool suction noise like in the movies. Inside sat a lot of paperwork. He pulled out two small cards and closed the case back up.

"Here," he said handing them to me. Upon taking them, I realized that they weren't cards, but IDs. One of them looked normal, with a thick laminate coating and bright font. The other looked similar to the police ID that Stephen liked to flash around. To my absolute horror, they used my old driver's license picture on both, so one could safely say that I looked like a medium-sized child. My real name was printed in large type at the top of each. That could mean two things: I was no longer considered a missing person, or I would not be considered a missing person for much longer.

"I'm going by my real name?" I asked him.

"Yes. You'll talk to your parents soon. You can be back in the public eye after that."

"And how soon is soon?"

"I'm not sure yet," he said. He gestured to the IDs with his chin. "One of those is for everyday use. The other is in case you need access to a certain level of federal files, or if it comes down to it, a crime scene. Your age has also been pushed up a few months to give you full legal mobility."

"Okay," I said. "This is good. It's progress."

He made a noise of acknowledgement. It was a very un-Thorpey sound, so I was thrown off for a few seconds. The old Rory wasn't very good with government stuff or police stuff or people who looked even mildly threatening. Now I think I was becoming sort of friendly with someone who seemed like they stole their personality from a rock and stuck it in a suit. We were both quiet for a minute as I stewed in that.

"Would you consider allowing me to talk to my parents?" I broke in. "It would be an actual, visible step forward."

"Rory-"

"You know it's true. The fact that I'm hiding in this flat with my hair the color of old pizza isn't helping anyone."

"It's also not hurting anyone, Rory. It's actually what you would be doing anyway, because it's the safest option right now."

I was frustrated because he was right. That didn't mean I shouldn't talk to my parents. I've always been fairly independent, but this wasn't independence. They were probably worried out of their minds that I was kidnapped by a gang of Ripper sympathizers, or left at the bottom of the Thames. That was completely not alright. I tried telling this to Thorpe, but he cut me off.

"I know what they think, and I've assured them that you're safe."

"You've assured- you've been in contact with them?"

"From the start," he said. He took in my bad dye job, my slightly oversized clothes, my bloodshot eyes. I guess it made sense that he had been talking to them. He's talked to basically everyone who's been in my life recently.

"Look. I will call them and see when they can meet with you. When that happens, you can't tell them anything except that you're safe and under government protection. Do you understand?"

I nodded.

"I mean it," he said, standing. He grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door. I couldn't help but smile as he left.

Everyone slowly trickled back into the living area after Thorpe was gone. Callum made a huge batch of scrambled eggs, which we ate crammed together in the kitchen. Boo and I shared a plate due to the sad lack of dishes. I didn't really mind any of this. Meals were something of a coming-together event for us, where everyone dropped what they were doing to stand around and talk about nothing in particular. It was especially nice after a long day of reading.

Afterward, Freddie and I washed the plates off. Stephen hung back with us to debate with Freddie about some sort of hallucinogenic Greek mushroom. Or at least this was what I gathered from their conversation- it was about a variety of fungi, and they all might have had something to do with the kykeon. His phone chimed as I scrubbed the last dish. He read the screen and looked up at me, waving the phone a little.

"Thorpe says he called your parents. Naturally, they want to meet you as soon as possible. He told them the Wexford courtyard tomorrow at 8:00 A.M."

I practically deflated in relief. There wasn't much I could really say, but I think seeing them would be enough to help me find some closure. They needed to know that I was safe and staying in London.

"You're sure this is what you want?" Stephen asked. He was seated on the island behind me, so I turned to face him. Positioned like this, our height difference was so great that it was silly.

"I know that we've talked about this before, but once you see your parents tomorrow, there's no going back."

"I'm sure," I replied. "I would go crazy in Louisiana. I would slip up and talk about ghosts. . . and people would treat me like my aura-seeing cousin. I don't want that."

"I guarantee you there are people with the Sight in Louisiana," he said. He held his hands up at my expression.

"I'm not trying to invalidate your feelings. I was just saying that you could find other Shades closer to your family."

"I know what you're saying, Stephen, and I appreciate the sentiment. I realize that you think I'm being reckless, but I know what I'm doing. You can talk to Freddie about mushrooms or whatever now."

"Oh, no, that's quite alright-" Freddie finished stacking the plates away. "I'm just leaving. Things to read-"

Freddie swiped her book off of the countertop and left. I wiped the soap suds off of my arms with a paper towel. Stephen appeared a bit vexed, but I didn't let that bother me. We were allowed to have different opinions on this. I saw where he was coming from, and was partially ecstatic that he cared about me enough to risk conflict, but I didn't actually feel like fighting.

It seemed like there was a debate going on in his head, so I continued cleaning my arm.

"Sorry," he said as I threw the wet towel away. "I'm not trying to tell you what to do. Your life is something you have to navigate yourself. I'm only worried about how you'll handle everything tomorrow."

"And what does that mean?"

"Rory," he sighed. "I'm not implying that you can't handle yourself. It's just that. . . you're going to have to talk to your mum and dad tomorrow as if it's the last time you'll ever see them. Not that it will be- but preparing yourself that way would be the best course of action. I think that it's going to be difficult for you. I want to help you figure this out."

What he was saying made sense. I had realized it on some level, but he was bringing it front and center. No matter how hard I tried to push all of those bad thoughts away, they would just bubble back up until I dealt with them. A game plan was needed for tomorrow. I needed to figure out how to make my parents let go for good, and how to let myself come to grips with that. If Stephen wanted to help, then that's where we'd start.

"I'm sorry for snapping," I said. He did a one-shoulder shrug and climbed down.

"I don't blame you. I can be a bit dense sometimes."

"Yeah." He could be. "You want to help me with my parents?"

"If you want it."

"So," I said, walking out of the kitchen. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and followed me.

"Let's talk."