She quickly skims a finger across a shelf of books, mumbling the call numbers as she goes. “Chi Sigma 597.10, Chi Sigma 597.1099, Chi Sigma 597.121—wait a second,” she says, skimming back a few books and then ahead again. “Chi Sigma 597.1099 and then Chi Sigma 597.121. Where is Chi Sigma 597.11?”

I look for myself. She’s right. The book is gone.

“That’s not possible,” she says. “This is a noncirculating collection. No one can check out an Olympic record. No one.”

My heart sinks.

Great. The one and only record of my dad’s trial is missing. That’s like waving a bowl of cookies and cream under my nose and then telling me ice cream’s off-limits. Almost having that record in my hands makes me even more desperate to know everything. All of a sudden I have a million more questions. What’s in the record? Who took it? Why did they take it? And, most important at the moment, does whoever sent me that note know where it is?

“Afraid I won’t catch you?”

I look back over my shoulder at Xander, standing there looking all cool and passive. He’s holding his hands out, palms up, but in a casual way.

“You’re not exactly inspiring confidence,” I say, nodding at his hands. “Besides, I’ve done this same thing like a million times before. It’s stupid.”

All around me, ten-year-olds are giggling. We’re in the courtyard again, though I think we should really be on a softer surface. At the moment we’re supposed to be doing that team-building trust exercise where you fall back and someone catches you. I’d much rather crash on grass than on the hard-tile mosaic of the courtyard floor.

All the giggly girls have been paired up, and one after another, they’re falling back into one another’s arms.

“You almost let me fall!” one girl—Larissa, I think—squeals. She’s a descendant of Hades, but with her golden blonde hair and dark green eyes, she doesn’t look like any Hades descendant I’ve met.

“I did not!” her partner, curly-haired Gillian, protests. “I was just softening your fall.”

While they argue, I turn my attention back to Xander, who is still watching me patiently.

“You’re right,” I say. “I don’t trust you.”

He shrugs. “This exercise isn’t about trusting me.”

I scowl. “It’s not?”

“No.” He shakes his head slowly. “It’s about trusting yourself.”

“I don’t get it.”

He just shrugs again and holds out his hands.

Clearly, explanation time is over.

I debate it for a minute longer. I mean, he’s definitely strong enough to catch me—that’s why I’m paired with him and not a ten-year-old—and definitely more likely than Stella or Adara to catch me. But the question is: Will he catch me? There’s a dark spark of mischief in his lavender eyes that suggests he likes breaking rules no matter the consequences. He’s trouble and likes it that way.

“Tell me something about yourself first.” I’m not about to risk bodily injury trusting someone who won’t tell me more than his name and grade.

He looks indifferent. “Like what?”

“Like—” I almost ask why he got expelled, but then change my mind. That might be too personal for a first question. And after what Griffin said about some people being touchy about their ancestor god, that’s not a smart choice, either. Instead, I go for something safe . . . ish. “Are you subjecting yourself to weeks of ten-year-olds just to spend time with Stella?”

I am totally bluffing. I mean, he’s shown no indication so far that he’s interested in anything about this camp, let alone one of the counselors. But she’s definitely interested in him. I’m looking out for my girl, testing the waters to see if her crush might be reciprocated. Maybe plant the seed of interest in his mind.

I don’t expect an admission.

His dark blond brows lift just the tiniest bit, betraying his surprise. Then, shocking the crap out of me, a flush of pink crawls up his neck.

Gotcha!

He grumbles, “Let’s just get on with the exercise.”

“Fine,” I say, satisfied with my victory.

Besides, if he drops me, I’ll have an excuse to skip out on the rest of these stupid exercises. I’ll be bleeding from the head, but I’ll be doing it at home.

Holding my arms straight out to the side, I close my eyes and fall.

Halfway to the ground, my eyes fly open. He’s not going to catch me. He’s not going to—

A split second before I hit the ground, his hands slip under my pits. My heart racing, I scramble upright and whirl around. “You almost let me drop!”

“You did not trust.”

“Of course not!” I smack him on the shoulder. Hard. “You were going to let me fall.”

“No.”

“No?” My jaw drops. “My skull was inches from tile.”

“Did it hit the ground?”

“Well, no,” I stammer. “But if you had—”

“Everything all right here?” Stella chirps. She’s been making her rounds of the partners, checking on the whole I-trust-you-you-trust-me status.

“No,” I snap. “It’s not all right. He sucks as a partner.”

Stella glares at me. Right, like she’ll listen to any words against Xander.

“This exercise,” she says slowly, “is not about your partner.”