The content of the "Blue Spirit" file is not what I expected. I have tried texting and calling Zuko numerous times because he HAS to see this. And I HAVE to know what he found in the "Painted Lady" folder. Needless to say, I do not sleep a wink.

This makes me a miserable wreck in the morning, but I remember to shower and put on clean clothes since I didn't the day before. Gran Gran fusses at me for not eating breakfast. Apparently I skipped dinner the past two nights, too? I resent the look of utter disbelief she shoots me when I yell, "I am fine!"

I mean, I will be fine once I talk to Zuko. To avoid further questioning and expressions of pity, I wait on the sidewalk for him to pick me up. Except it isn't his ten-year-old sedan that pulls up in front of my apartment building. I would have never pegged Iroh for a sports car aficionado, yet a white Lotus Elise now purrs in the nearest parking spot with a bearded driver poking his head out to grin and wave at me.

I smile back, but my heart sinks. It's a two-seater which means no Zuko. That new car smell combined with crisp leather wafts when I open the door.

"Only eight more days until the season premiere of Crossroads! Aren't you excited, Katara?" Iroh chirps.

I survey the interior like I've lost something—someone. "Where's Zuko?"

"He's fallen—" The old man lets out a raspy cough. "—ill today. I might be coming down with a little bug myself."

He revs the engine and raises his eyebrows. I hum appreciatively, pretending to admire the power of the machine, but the vibration only heightens the sick sensation of worry I already feel in my stomach. Iroh doesn't seem to notice my discomfort as he then launches into a long explanation on theories he has for upcoming episodes of our mutual favorite show. I don't mention that I haven't finished season six, yet, and he's basically spoiling the ending for me. But I no longer hold the same anticipation—like something so trivial couldn't possibly matter in comparison. It reminds me of how I couldn't wait to get my ears pieced.

Finally, I can't stand it anymore. "Uncle Iroh? Where is Ursa?"

In truth, I already know the answer to this. Because her whereabouts are detailed in the Blue Spirit file.

"Ursa is… gone," he answers simply.

"I know she had to go into hiding," I say. "But… does Zuko know?" I'm almost certain that he doesn't, but my sources also list Iroh as a point of contact. Why would he keep this information a secret from his nephew when it so obviously causes him suffering?

Iroh lets out a long and labored sigh while fixating hard and fast on the road, very much in the same way that Zuko does when troubled by the topic of discussion. Seconds stretch to minutes, and I'm ready to fire my next question when he finally speaks again.

"I do not know what Zuko's father told him about his mother," he says. "But whatever it is, Zuko accepts that he will never see her again. And that is… for the best."

Tears sting at the corner of my eyes, and a bitterness burns at the back of my throat. Because if my mother was out there somewhere, still alive, I'd do whatever it takes to find her.

"But why?" I ask.

"Because if Ozai knew where Ursa was, he'd kill her."

"But Zuko thinks she's dead already. Why can't he at least know that she's alive? It doesn't make sense!"

"It makes sense when you understand what kind of control Ozai can exert over his family. It is much safer this way."

"But if Zuko knew—"

"If Zuko knew anything, his father would find a way to get the information from him and then kill him, too. Your family wouldn't be safe, either. It would be best to just let it go, Katara."

I seethe at this response but don't say anything more for the rest of the ride except thank you when Iroh drops me off at the Marine Center. It's going to be another unproductive day at work for me as I'm plagued by thoughts such as…

I know Ozai is cruel and scandalous, but a killer?

And if Iroh knows so much, then how come Ozai hasn't killed him?

Did Ozai kill my mother?


Zuko still hasn't answered my calls or texts and misses the next two days of work. I am worried to the point of exhaustion. Iroh doesn't offer me any more rides to work, probably because of my aggressive line of questioning. Maybe I do have what it takes to become an investigative journalist. But if I would have kept my mouth shut, I could be seated comfortably in a luxury sports car instead of on the stinky crowded bus. I suppose the quest for truth involves making sacrifices.

For my mom, it meant sacrificing everything. I'm crying again, and this time, the bus driver hands me tissue, like he came prepared for that girl who always gets emotional. He obviously remembers who I am because he waits for me to get off at my stop, and I have to tell him I'm going one stop further today—to Mushi's.

There are so many missing pieces to the story, and I plan to continue my investigation by stationing myself in our usual booth until either Zuko or Iroh decide to start explaining. The wait staff looks at me in the same way the bus driver does—like I'm going to spontaneously combust at any moment now. They offer me my usual, but I surprise them, too, but ordering something different.

What can I say? I'm investigating a murder now. I'm living dangerously.

OK, maybe trying the sea urchin was a little bold, especially when I've hardly eaten anything of substance for a few days. I am now poking at it with my chopstick, pretending it's Ozai's—ugh, I don't even know what body part it would represent. I think I might throw up.

Odds of this greatly improve when Mai walks in the door, demanding to see Zuko. She is told that he is not here. She accuses the hostess of lying. I said the same thing to the poor woman when I arrived, but surely I didn't make that much of a scene? Oh God, I did put my hand on my hip just like that, though.

I try to look away, but I just can't. Mai persists, now asking to see Iroh. When her tone shifts from forceful to frantic, I become less suspicious of her as an enemy and start thinking of her as a source. She works for Future Fire Technology, so maybe she knows something. But how do I approach her?

I don't have to. She catches my eye on her way out the door. She hesitates as if weighing her options, grimaces at the sight of my food, and finally decides to sit down after letting out a dramatic sigh.

She's really... pretty. I kinda want to scream right now.

"I can't seem to get through to anyone here, but maybe you can help me," she starts.

I nod.

She leans in and props her elbows up on the table. "Listen. Zuko is in big trouble. His dad found out he went to the police. He needs to… I dunno, get out of town for a little while until this shit blows over."

The police?

Mai's brow furrows under her thick fringe. I guess she wants some kind of response besides my blank stare because she shakes her head and mumbles stupid peasant before reaching into her handbag. She then extends her hand, draws in a shaky breath and places a USB drive on the table in between us. This one is very standard looking—not disguised to give color or moisture to one's lips.

"I can trust you, right?" she asks.

I gape at the device like it's going to explode, but all I feel is the heat of her intense amber eyes boring into me.

"It's more evidence for Zuko's case. I've found some really weird stuff since I started working for Future Fire." She takes a cursory glance around the restaurant, and her voice drops to a harsh whisper. "I should NOT be doing this, and I was NEVER here, OK?"

Zuko's case?

She pushes the USB drive all the way across the table to where it's nestled underneath my elbow. "Keep it hidden, you dumbass." Then she quickly stands and hisses, "Your food smells like shit," before slithering away.

She may have inspired a new creature for my stories, an eel with spiky scales like a sea urchin. I debate on the name—Uniagi, perhaps? If only I could retreat into my imaginary world right now…


I bang on Iroh's apartment door. He finally answers but says that Zuko still has a relentless fever, and he doesn't want me to catch it. I say I don't care, I have to see him NOW.

It was no exaggeration. Zuko is really, really sick. Like deliriously feverish. I hold a cold cloth to his forehead. Zuko moans. Iroh paces the floor.

"I had counted on Zuko getting better by now," he says. "This really interferes with your travel plans."

"Our... travel plans?" This is equally unnerving and relieving to me, especially after what Mai said.

"Yes. You're going to Alaska. I hope it wasn't too forthright, but I took the liberty of booking your passage."

"Where in Alaska?" I ask.

"You have family there, right?"

"Yes, I do."

And Zuko does, too.


Thankfully, the next day is Saturday, and the fever finally breaks. Zuko talks about the crazy dreams he had—something about dragons and a bald kid with blue arrow tattoos. He insists that miso soup and mochi ice cream are needed to nurse him back to full health. Like the dork that I am, I retrieve whatever he asks for and listen attentively to his stories. But it does not go unnoticed that he tends to change the subject when I bring up the USB drive and my mother's files. I haven't told him about Mai's visit, yet.

Our flight for Anchorage leaves Monday morning. I almost forget to call Yue to let her know I won't be coming into work. The best reason I can come up with is the truth—I feel threatened. Now that I have read the files Mai gave me, I contend that Ozai would kill anybody who got in his way. I want to warn Yue, in fact, but I don't really think she is a target. Future Fire's donations to the Marine Center serve as a diversion tactic so that no one pays attention to the real work going on behind the scenes.

Zuko must have stumbled upon the same secrets when working there last summer. And so, his father gave him a permanent reminder on his face to never tell anyone. This is my speculation, anyhow, but maybe Zuko will tell me about it someday. He doesn't owe me an explanation about his scar, but he better tell me what's in that Painted Lady folder at least.

This is what I know: Zuko's dad has been selling his VR technology to undisclosed clients off the record, many of whom serve in foreign militaries and governments. The VR headsets offer an enhanced tactical training platform for soldiers.

As if committing high treason wasn't bad enough, the gloves are being formulated for use as actual weapons—flame throwers, of sorts. And the exoskeleton will be reconstructed as high-powered armor. And all of this new technology is being tested in a remote area in central California.

Death Valley.


It's a little complicated to get to my dad's hometown, but my family normally flies to Seattle, then we connect to Anchorage. From there, a smaller commercial airline transports to outlying villages, and the closest one is King Salmon, a 30-minute drive away. My dad knows a pilot who will fly directly into the Naknek airport, but he operates seasonally, and is often very busy during the summer months.

Today's travel itinerary confuses me, though. Iroh drops us off at a random train station so we can take an hour-long ride to a different airport across the bay. Then we fly to Chicago? I do the math in my head—a four-hour flight in the wrong direction—then another seven hours to Alaska. As far as I know, our tickets only take us as far as Anchorage. What then? I don't ask, and Zuko doesn't offer any explanation, either. In fact, he says very little with his headphones on, hidden beneath his hood. It is going to be a very long day.

When we land in Chicago, and Zuko receives a text from his uncle to change airlines, it hits me. We're doing all of this to evade Ozai who might be trying to follow us. I pull my own hood over my head and without even realizing it, I grip Zuko's elbow. There's a softness in his golden eyes when he looks back at me and warmth in his fingertips when he clasps his hand over mine. It's the same comfort he gave me that night in his car and a glimpse of the vulnerability we shared at the tide pools.

I shudder and finally admit my biggest secret of all. Because when I say this, it means I'm not in control anymore. "Zuko, I'm scared."

I have been all along. Ever since Mom died. I thought I could be brave. I thought I was strong, but—

"Me too, Katara."

He's not supposed to say that! I want to scream at him to fix this. He's the one who should be brave and strong and better than this.

I storm off and make a scene right there in the airport even though we're supposed to be flying under the radar. Zuko doesn't run after me, though. He always knows when I need my space. He texts me our departure information, and by the time I meet him at the gate, I've realized how I misdirected my anger. Voicing my apology is hard because some things we haven't talked about, yet.

"I'm sorry I got mad and ran off," I start with a shrug. "B-b-but I've been blaming you—your family for my mom's…"

"Yon Rha," Zuko says.

"What?"

"He's the man who—" He winces. "When your mother's investigation got too deep, my father hired someone to…"

I swallow hard and nod. I can't decide if he's telling me this to get a reprieve from my angry outbursts or so I can have some semblance of closure on the matter. I don't think it'll serve either purpose, but the look on his face is an odd mixture of hopefulness and regret. Maybe I can return the favor.

"Ikem," I say.

"Who?"

"He's the man—" I watch his eyes go wide then dart from side to side. "Your mother," I add with a whisper.

We hold each other's gaze, both knowing this conversation is too risky to have right here, right now.

I am startled by the announcement on the loudspeaker. "We are now boarding passengers for Air Appa flight 813 nonstop service to Anchorage, Alaska."