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Again.

Then I open them.

Panic is useless.

I need information.

I need my father.

Ugh. The thought curdles in my gut.

Calling Arthur Vexley is always a last resort. But I need to ask him about Samson and Delaney.

Of course, I can’t ask him about Samson and Delaney.

Not directly.

I need a pretext.

Something legitimate.

Something urgent enough to warrant the call, but not so personal that he smells fear on it.

VexleyARC.

That’s our main concern at the moment.

I pull the blueprints out of the cardboard tubes standing against the wall.

Now… What can I find here to necessitate a call to my father?

I unroll the blueprints across my desk. The plans are beautiful, of course. Clean lines. Expansive glass. Interior gardens. Meditation rooms. Private suites. A first-rate medical wing. Community spaces with vaulted ceilings and abundant natural light.

I’ve seen it all before, but I didn’t look too closely. I’m not an architect.

Now I look.

Really look.

And I see it.

A cluster of rooms on the second level set apart from the main therapeutic suites. The legend marks them as coaching areas.

Coaching areas.

Six rooms.

No windows.

Sound-buffered walls.

Double-door access points.

Independent ventilation.

A secured corridor that loops behind them and connects to a staff-only elevator.

I shift to the next sheet.