Free The Secret Fire by Whitaker Ringwald

tourists walking through his lair. I looked around nervously. Then I turned to the back page and found a map. I retraced my steps from the main entrance and the offices we’d passed. Then to the circular room, which was called the surveillance hub. There was a dining hall, a basketball court, and a movie theater. There was a death row and a famous escape tunnel, but it had been filled in a long time ago so it wouldn’t do me any good. The entire prison was surrounded by the stone wall. The only exit appeared to be the gateway we’d driven through.
    This was totally different from the prison where my dad was being held—a minimum-security facility known as a prison “camp.” The inmates hadn’t committed violent crimes—mostly financial crimes—so they wore nice clothes, got hot meals, had a library, access to email . . .
    Email?
    I pushed the blanket aside and began to pace, trying to work my thoughts into something. Anything. The window was too high to reach. The doorwas the only way out. Maybe I could break the lock like they always do in the movies. But I didn’t have a bobby pin or anything sharp. I crouched in front of the door and examined the lock. It looked like the kind that a long key would fit into. I grabbed the knob. Maybe if I pushed hard enough . . . ?
    The door opened.
    Whoa! How was that possible? I’d assumed that Timothy had locked me in but this whole time it hadn’t been locked? Then again, why would he lock the door? If I served the one purpose, there was no reason to think I’d want to escape. Timothy had treated me as if I were just another brainwashed zombie. That had been his big fat mistake.
    Oh, I had one purpose , but it wasn’t about helping Ricardo.
    I was going to get back to those offices and use one of the computers.

12
Ethan
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  FACT: One of the first things you practice in social-skills class is eye contact. Even though it’s very uncomfortable for many people, it’s one of the most important forms of nonverbal communication. Too little makes the other person feel like you’re not paying attention. Too much, however, can be aggressive and make the other person uncomfortable. Avoiding eye contact in a crowd maintains your individual privacy, which is what I tend to do.
    My teacher likes to say that eye contact is important because the eyes are the windows to the soul. If that is true, then Pandora’s soul was beautiful.
    â€œW elcome to my home,” she told us, her eyes twinkling. I couldn’t look away. It wasn’t because I’d suddenly lost my shyness and had a surge of social confidence. It was because her eyes were mesmerizing. They were almond-shaped and they changed colors. Literally. From blue to green to violet and back to blue. It was distracting.
    She opened her front door and led us into her house.
    I wasn’t sure what to expect, since I’d never been to a god’s house before. Technically, Pandora wasn’t a god, but she lived with them, which made her immortal. I expected she’d have a mansion or a castle. But the house was small and simple. Like a cottage.
    The stone walls and marble floor were white and perfectly polished. The wooden furniture was sparse but elegant. One wall was covered with a dolphin mural, built from colorful mosaic tiles. Another wall had a life-size mural of an olive tree. The whole place was clean, with absolutely no clutter. No stacks ofbooks, or piles of junk mail. No shoes lying around, no coats draped across benches. It was a house without stuff . My mom always complains that we have too much stuff and that if she could get back the hours she’s spent putting our stuff away, she’d be young again. She’d like this house.
    As Pandora walked us through the various rooms, I got a better view of her. Her red hair hung all the way to her waist and it sparkled like her daughter’s. Her white gown was