"It's very nice to meet you, ma'am," I told Orica's mother as we hurried through the ROM employee parking garage.

"Please, call me Omelia." When she wasn't beating enemy agents senseless, Orica's mother was the least agent-like person I could possibly imagine. Instead, she came across as the world's most chipper and enthusiastic soccer mom. As far as I could tell, it wasn't an act. She was gracious, kind, charming—and unlike Orica's father, she appeared to be extremely competent. Her lilting British accent was so delightful, she made Mary Poppins sound like a troll. "And it's a pleasure to meet you as well, OJ. Orica has told me ever so much about you."

I glanced at Orica, surprised by this. It was hard to tell in the dark garage, but it seemed as though her face might have had a tinge of embarrassment. "It was for the mission," she informed me. "I told you I had to make additional arrangements? That was Mom. I couldn't very well bring her in without briefing her about you."

"Oh, that's right," Omelia said, in a way that merely seemed to be humoring Orica. "All our conversations about you were purely for work, OJ."

We arrived at her car, a well-used, completely nondescript minivan that she'd somehow managed to procure an official Royal Ontario Museum parking pass for.

I started to ask one of the dozens of questions I had about Omelia, but she put a finger to her lips and cautioned, "I know there's much to discuss, but at the moment we really ought to focus on our escape. I'm afraid I need both of you to keep mum for a bit." Omelia clicked her key fob. The minivan side door slid open, and the rear seats tilted back, revealing a hidden compartment in the floor of the vehicle. "I'll also need you to get in there."

The compartment wasn't very big. It would be a very tight, cramped fit for Orica and me.

Orica frowned. "No way. OJ's the one who's wanted."

"Both of you are wanted now," Omelia informed her. "You aided a known felon in broad daylight and you destroyed an entire gallery of ocean life." She sighed. "I did so love that whale. I hope it isn't too badly damaged. Now, no more chitchat. In you go."

Orica disgruntledly climbed into the compartment and then I got in with her. The only way to fit was to lie on our sides, face-to-face. Except for the part about being fugitives from justice, I found myself quite excited about being in such close quarters with Orica.

Meanwhile, Orica looked like she'd rather be locked in a medieval torture device.

"Now, no kissing in there, you two," Omelia teased. "Our safety is at risk."

"Mother!" Orica gasped, horrified. She flushed red as Omelia shut the compartment, casting us into darkness.

I had never seen Orica like this before. Being around her mother was bringing out a part of her she'd always managed to keep hidden: the normal preteen girl.

There was a heavy clunk above our heads as Omelia slid the rear seats back over us.

We kept silent as she drove out of the employee parking garage and headed into the city streets. It was hard to hear anything over the sound of the minivan's engine and the road passing beneath us, but Omelia updated us as she drove along. "The Odd Squad seems to have evacuated the museum and barricades are being erected everywhere. I'm about to hit a checkpoint, so stay silent, children."

The minivan stopped and we heard Omelia lowering her window, followed by the monotone voice of a bored Odd Squad agent. "Sorry, ma'am, but we have to search all cars exiting this area. And I'll need to see some identification."

"Certainly," Omelia agreed graciously. "Here you go, sir. Is all this commotion about those hooligans who caused the ruckus in the museum?"

"That's classified." There was a pause, during which the agent was probably scrutinizing Omelia's driver's license. Then he said, "Can I ask what your business is here?"

"I work for the British embassy as a liaison to the Royal Ontario Museum. Helping organize exhibits of British artists, arranging loans of paintings, that sort of thing. I just delivered a rather fascinating item from the British Museum, one of Darwin's original notebooks. . . ."

"Mmm-hmm," the agent said, like he couldn't care less. "Could you open the rear doors of your vehicle for me?"

"Happy to oblige." There was the sound of the automatic door sliding open, and then we could feel the presence of the agent inside the van, snooping around for us. He didn't take long. He simply checked behind the seats and in the back, never expecting that someone as sweet and disarming as Omelia would have a secret hatch for harboring fugitives built into her vehicle.

"All right," the agent said, sliding the door shut again. "You're clear. Sorry for the inconvenience."

"No inconvenience at all. I hope you catch whomever you're looking for. Ta-ta." Omelia rolled up her window and drove away.

"I'm afraid you'll have to stay down there a bit longer," she informed us. "I know it's cramped, but this whole area is crawling with agents. I'm afraid that if I pull over to let you up, it might raise some suspicion. I do think it's safe to talk, though."

"So you're Odd Squad?" I asked before I could stop myself. I was so desperate to learn more about Omelia, the question practically jumped off my tongue.

"I was Odd Squad," Omelia replied. "In my youth, I worked at precinct 247439 in London, England. Although I must caution you, that is extremely privileged information. Very few people in North America have been allowed knowledge of my true identity. Including Orica's father."

I gasped in surprise. "Your own husband doesn't know you're an agent?"

"Ex-husband," Omelia said quickly. "We parted ways several years ago."

"Sorry," I said. "I didn't realize. Orica never said anything. . . ."

"Yes, Orica tends to be rather tight-lipped about her family. I suppose that's my fault, in a sense. There have always been so many things to keep secret."

"Still," I said. "I can't believe Oshton doesn't know."

"Really?" Orica asked from the darkness. "You've met Oshton. I'm surprised he knows he's an agent."

"Now, now," Omelia chided. "Your father may have a few faults . . ."

"A few?" Orica echoed testily.

". . . but he's not nearly as awful as you make him out to be either."

"Why are you defending him?" Orica asked. "He was a lousy father and an even worse husband."

Omelia suddenly slammed on the brakes. I had a feeling she was trying to stop this bit of the conversation as well as the minivan. "All right. I think the coast is clear now. You little moles can come out of your hole."

I heard the seats sliding back above us and then the hatch clicked open. Orica scrambled out as fast as she could, like she'd been suffocating inside.

I pried myself out a bit slower, my muscles already cramped from being in the confined space.

Orica helped me replace the hatch and slide the seats back, then called shotgun and climbed into the front passenger seat.

I buckled myself into the back and Omelia pulled into traffic again. As usual, it was bumper-to-bumper in the middle of the city.

"I expect you're famished, OJ," Omelia said to me. "So I brought you some homemade blueberry muffins." She passed a foil-wrapped paper plate back to me.

The muffins smelled incredible. Now that the danger was over and my stomach had calmed, I was so hungry, I probably would have eaten the dead squid from the museum. I tore off the foil and quickly inhaled a muffin.

It tasted even better than it smelled. Even if I hadn't been ravenous, it would have been the single best muffin I'd ever eaten.

"You never made me homemade muffins," Orica said, failing to hide the bitterness in her voice.

"I tried," Omelia countered. "Back when you were a very little girl. But you argued that carbs were bad for you. Along with ice cream, bangers, saturated fats, and pretty much everything else in the world that's tasty. You always claimed your body was a temple." She met my gaze in the rearview mirror and gave me a conspiratorial grin. "On her third birthday, she actually requested trail mix instead of a cake."

"I did not," Orica said.

"Oh yes you did. And then when we tried to play pin the tail on the donkey, you insisted on using your impale-inator. After that, we couldn't have any more parties."

"Mother." Orica groaned again. "Please stop sharing."

"OJ!" Omelia said suddenly. "I almost forgot. I also made you some tea." She handed back an old-fashioned tartan-plaid thermos bottle with a cap that doubled as a cup. "I know it's very stereotypical for a British person to make tea, but the fact is, it's chock-full of antioxidants and has far less sugar than most energy drinks."

"Thanks," I said, pouring myself a cup. "By the way, these muffins are delicious."

"That's very sweet of you to say," Omelia replied. "My secret is, I use just a hint of lavender."

"Would you like one?" I asked Orica.

Orica wavered a moment, seeming torn between accepting something made by her mother and consuming carbohydrates. Finally, she said, "I guess."

I handed one to her, then devoured another.

"So did you meet Oshton through work?" I asked Omelia, my mouth full of muffin.

"Yes," she replied. "In a sense. When I was quite a bit younger, The European Odd Squad became aware that the North American Odd Squad was withholding information from us. Information they should have been sharing. So I was sent over here to find alternative ways to gather it. Oshton was one of my targets. I wasn't supposed to fall for him, but as I'm sure you know, he makes quite a good first impression."

"He does," I agreed, recalling the first time I'd seen Oshton at the veteran agent assembly. I had been extremely impressed by him. It might have taken me much longer to figure out what a lousy agent he was if Orica hadn't tipped me off.

Omelia sighed. "He was so handsome and charming. He just swept me off my feet."

"Ick," Orica said, under her breath.

"Of course, I could never tell him that I'd been sent here to gouge him for information," Omelia went on. "Revealing the truth would have ruined the bond of trust that is integral to any marriage. So I kept everything secret. And then, as the years went on, I began to realize that Oshton had concealed some things from me."

"Like the fact that he sucked eggs as an agent?" Orica asked.

"Well . . . yes."

"So how long have you known about your mother?" I asked Orica.

"I've always known," Orica replied.

"I never hid it from her," Omelia told me. "It was very difficult to live a secret life around my husband. I simply couldn't do it to my daughter."

"And O'Cyrus?" I asked. "Does he know?"

Omelia considered this for a while before responding, "I don't believe so. O'Cyrus might be greatly invested in Orica, but he's awfully blinkered where women are concerned."

"But, then, if Grandpa did know, he might never have let on," Orica pointed out.

"I suppose not," Omelia agreed.

It occurred to me that having a family in the Odd Squad business was far more complicated than having a family in the grocery business. The biggest intrigue we ever had in my family was when Mom got upset with Dad for coming home smelling like baloney.

"As much as I'd love to discuss our family and all its foibles," Omelia said, "I'm afraid we ought to put the kibosh on this conversation."

"You mean, there are other things to discuss?" I asked.

"Yes," Omelia said. "Plus, this is all highly classified. We've taken you into great confidence here. I've only done it because Orica swears you're trustworthy. But I'm afraid I still must warn you, you can't share any of this with another living soul. If you do . . ."

"You'll have to kill me," I finished.

Omelia was taken aback. "Kill you? Goodness, no. That's a bit drastic, isn't it? I wouldn't kill you, dear. I'd only maim you a little."

"Oh," I said, unsure if that was actually better.

"But you're right," Omelia pressed on. "There is another, far more serious issue we must discuss: You've gotten yourself into quite a pickle, OJ. And we need to figure out how to, er . . . unpickle you. Now, Orica claims you believe that THE ORGANIZATION is behind all this trouble, is that correct?"

I glanced at Orica, unsure what to say. In the debriefing of our first face-off with THE ORGANIZATION, we had been told that their existence was highly classified and that we weren't supposed to discuss it with anyone.

"It's all right," Orica told me. "We won't get in trouble for sharing agency secrets. Mom already knew about THE ORGANIZATION way before this."

"As you may recall all Odd Squad Directors in the United Kingdom were there when you thwarted THE ORGANIZATION's attempt to blow up BOSS-CON," Omelia explained. "They filled us in on everything They'd learned. By the way, OJ, They are very thankful to you for saving their life. All Odd Squads in the UK have been authorized to help you and are willing to extend you every courtesy we can in return for that."

"Thanks," I said. "Well, then, yes, I'm quite sure THE ORGANIZATION was behind framing me. I think they planted the chatter to get O'Cyrus to place me inside the Big Office, got Big Office security used to seeing me, and then slipped a bomb into my jacket on the subway yesterday afternoon and made me a Bombay Boomerang."

"And the Big Office Security Force didn't detect the bomb on you?" Omelia asked.

"They did," I said. "But the bomb dogs had gotten all excited the day before when they smelled my jacket, and there was nothing in it. So the second day, when the dogs went nuts, the agents figured it was a false alarm."

"The dogs got all excited about you the first day?" Omelia asked suspiciously. She and Orica shared a look.

"THE ORGANIZATION must have planted something on you then, too," Orica told me. "Something to provoke the dogs. Like a tiny bit of meat. Or a trace of explosive so small that the gadget couldn't detect it, even though the dogs could. They wanted the dogs to make a big deal about you, so when it happened again the second day, the agents would think it was another false alarm."

I shrank back in my seat, disturbed by how easily THE ORGANIZATION had manipulated me—and the Odd Squad. "I took the subway to the Big Office the first day too. Someone must have slipped the bait into my jacket then."

"Not necessarily," Orica said. "They could have planted it quite a bit earlier. Even a few days ahead of time. Those dogs would have still smelled it."

Omelia nodded agreement. "Nice deductive work, children. From what I know about THE ORGANIZATION, that sounds like the sort of devious plot they'd attempt. Unfortunately, most people—including those in our own agency—haven't even heard of THE ORGANIZATION, and therefore, this will sound exceedingly far-fetched to them. I don't suppose you have any evidence to back up your speculation, OJ?"

"Er . . . no," I admitted.

"Then you'll have to get some," Omelia said. "It's the only way to clear your name. And if you can't prove your innocence, you'll have to flee the country."

"Flee the country?" I repeated.

"Why, yes. Even with Orica helping you, there's no way you'll be able to stay ahead of the entire Canadian Odd Squad for long. However, should you choose to, I could arrange for you to be spirited away to one of Britain's many territories and establish a new identity for you."

"Like where?" I asked.

"It'd be up to you. The British Empire still controls some very lovely islands in the Caribbean: Bermuda, Anguilla, Turks and Caicos, Virgin Gorda. We could set you up as an orphan on one and perhaps get you a nice internship with one of the many scuba diving operations. It would be a rather nice life—although you wouldn't ever get to see your family or friends again, which I suspect might put a damper on things."

I had never been to a Caribbean island—or any beach that wasn't secretly a plot to scope out a forcefield generator—which made this more intriguing than being relocated to many other places. Antartica, for example. But I certainly didn't want to spend the rest of my life as a fugitive without ever being able to see my parents, my friends . . . or Orica. I looked to Orica and thought I caught the slightest glimpse of emotion in her eyes, indicating that she wasn't thrilled with this prospect either.

"I don't want to go on the run," I said. "I want to prove my innocence."

"That will be dangerous," Omelia cautioned.

"I don't care."

"There's also a chance you'll fail and end up in jail here for the rest of your life. A tropical island would be much nicer."

I hesitated for a moment, considering the wisdom of that.

"OJ's not going to jail," Orica said confidently. "We're going to find the evidence to save him."

Omelia looked to her, concerned. "You? I don't think so. You've already risked far too much for OJ. Now, I'm sure that, with your grandfather's help, we can arrange a cover story claiming that you were actually trying to capture OJ at the museum today, rather than abetting his escape, but it will take every bit of clout O'Cyrus has to get you back into the good graces of the Odd Squad. If you put your neck on the line for OJ now and fail, your entire future will be in jeopardy."

I expected Orica might pause to think that over, the same way I had. But she didn't waver in her conviction for a moment. "I don't care. OJ was framed by THE ORGANIZATION and I'm not going to let them get away with it."

Omelia appeared to have conflicting emotions about this. She seemed simultaneously proud of her daughter and worried about her. However, she couldn't respond right away, as we had finally arrived at the British embassy.

Omelia pulled up to the gate and put on a good show for the guard posted there, sweet as could be. "Morning, Tristam!"

"Good morning," Tristam replied cheerfully, then glanced through the window at Orica and me. Thankfully, he didn't seem to recognize us. But then, the chance that one of Britain's diplomatic employees might be harboring two fugitives was probably a stretch for anyone. "No school for the kids today?"

"No," Omelia said with a motherly sigh. "It's yet another one of those holiday weekends. They've got a whole slew of days off and I have nowhere to send them. You've met Orica before, of course. And this is her friend Mortimer."

"Hey, Tristam," Orica said with a wave, slipping back into ditz mode for a second.

"My, my," Tristam said. "Orica, you get bigger every day. And it's a pleasure to meet you, Mortimer." He nodded graciously to me. "Well, come on through." He waved us through the gates.

As we rolled onto the property, Omelia resumed our conversation. "Orica, I know you consider OJ a friend, but I would be negligent as a mother if I didn't point out the severe risks associated with helping him. THE ORGANIZATION has certainly planned for the possibility of OJ trying to prove his innocence and taken steps to prevent that from happening. Going up against them will be arduous, demanding, and potentially deadly. Plus, they've covered their tracks so well, we've never been able to develop a single lead to them. I wish I could be more helpful, but I don't have the foggiest idea where you could even start tracking them down."

"I do," Orica said. "We need to talk to Oshleigh."

Omelia slammed on the brakes as she pulled into her parking space. Then she wheeled on Orica, astonished. "Oshleigh?" she repeated, worried.

"You know about her?" I asked.

"Orica has kept me up to date on your last mission," Omelia explained. "As well as all the miscreants you have encountered on them." She returned her attention to Orica. "I don't like this at all."

I shared Omelia's concern. Oshleigh had been a student at THE ORGANIZATION's Villain Academy, a former Odd Squad gymnast who'd turned to crime after barely missing the cut for her precinct's gymnastic team. She had originally come across as kind and friendly—if a bit misguided—but had ultimately proved to be fully committed to THE ORGANIZATION and extremely dangerous. She was the only person I knew of who had ever come close to defeating Orica in a fight.

While Outlaw, a fellow Villain Academy student, had turned his back on THE ORGANIZATION and helped thwart their plans, Oshleigh had been unrepentant. Both were now serving time for their crimes, although Outlaw had been given a far shorter sentence in return for his help. Since Oshleigh and Outlaw were minors, the Odd Squad couldn't send them to a federal penitentiary. And yet both had been deemed too important to send to a standard juvenile detention facility. So a new version of juvenile detention had been created solely for them, a place where they could still be educated while being kept under maximum security.

"Oshleigh is incarcerated at the Odd Squad Academy," Omelia said.

"I know," Orica replied. "I'm the one who told you that."

"And you want to talk to her?"

"I think she might know something."

"You're currently on the run, and you want to go to the one place where everyone knows exactly who you are?" Omelia asked.

"Yes."

"You want to break into a highly secure Odd Squad facility to seek help from a known felon who absolutely despises you?"

"Yes."

"And your plan is to get some crucial information about THE ORGANIZATION out of that very felon, even though the entire Odd Squad hasn't been able to get her to reveal a single thing in the past month?"

"I know how to get her to talk," Orica said confidently.

Omelia sighed heavily, then looked to the sky, as if imploring the heavens. "How on earth did you ever get to be such a stubborn, presumptuous, bullheaded firebrand?"

"I learned it from my mother," Orica answered.

A tiny smile creased Omelia's lips. "Yes, I suppose you did."

"So what's the plan?" I asked.