"Where were you?" I could hear my voice breaking. "I needed you."
"Cam," my mother said softly. "I knew you were safe, sweetheart. The Baxters are good people - they're great operatives -"
"They're aren't my family. I needed you!"
"Sweetheart, believe me, I wanted to come to you, but it wasn't possible."
I wanted to believe her, but Agent Townsend was like a ghost, whispering in my ear.
They won't hurt her.
"Why didn't you come to London, Mom?"
"I told you, Cammie. I was detained."
It was the same phrase both Townsend and Professor Buckingham had used, but as I looked at my mother, I knew she hadn't missed her flight, been caught in a meeting, lost her passport. They had meant detained as in handcuffs and had cots and facilities run by the CIA.
"Detained how? Detained where? Langley?" I watched the light change in my mother's eyes and I knew that I was right.
"When an operative is accused of being a double agent, it's standard operating procedure for anyone associated with him of her to questioned. It's protocol, kiddo. It's nothing."
"What about the other teachers? Professor Buckingham? Mr. Smith? Why weren't they -"
"They were questioned, Cam. We were all questioned."
"Then why were you late? Why are you the only one just getting back to school now?"
"I've known Mr. Solomon the longest." She drew a deep breath. "I'm the one who hired him and brought him here, so naturally . . ." She trailed off. She didn't look at me for a long time. "But I'm back now." She caressed my hair. "You're safe." She pulled me to her, breathed deeply. "You're safe."
There are things that go unsaid between people lingering under the surface for decades, for lifetimes. I've wondered sometimes if spies have of those things of fewer. More, I think. There are just too many things that even the bravest of people in the world aren't brave enough to say out loud.
"Mr. Solomon came to me," I whispered.
My mother stepped away. "I know."
"He said they were wrong. He said he didn't do it - that they're after the wrong man.
I . . ." I thought about the sadness in him as he'd hugged me. "I believed him."
"Joe Solomon is an amazing operative, sweetheart."
"So -"
"Amazing operatives make the best liars." She sank onto the leather couch, seeming almost too weak to stand. "He's never coming back, Cammie."
In the years since my father died, I've seen my mother cry once, maybe twice, and never when she knew I could see her. But in that moment, tears welled in her eyes, and I didn't know is she was speaking of Mr. Solomon or of my father as she whispered, "He's never coming back."
Chapter Eighteen
Gallagher Girls don't skip class. We don't play hooky and there was never been a senior ditch day. Ever. But walking through the halls the next morning, I wanted to make an exception. I wanted to run - to hide like I'd never hidden before. To crawl back into bed and sleep a million years.
Turns out, I wasn't the only one.
"Good morning, Ms. Morgan."
I heard the floorboards creak behind me. I recognized the groggy voice. But the face that I saw when I turned wasn't quite what I was expecting.
Sure, Agent Townsend's hair was damp from a shower, and his clothes were fresh and neatly pressed, but his eyes were red and puffy. When he pushed past me and walked to his desk at the front of the room, he carried himself delicately, like a man who dearly wished the world would stop spinning. (His teeth, on the other hand, did seem significantly whiter.)
Note to self: never volunteer to help Elizabeth Sutton test one of her experiments.
The lights were off in the CoveOps classroom, but when Tina Walters paused by the door and reached for the switch, our teacher grumbled, "Leave them off."
As we made our way to our chairs, Townsend squeezed his eyes shut as if our footsteps were rifle shots in the dark.
"I don't care what you do with the next hour," he said softly, easing into the chair behind his desk. "I don't care how you do it. Just do it . . . quietly."
People have bad mornings at the Gallagher Academy all the time - yawning girls who have pulled all-nighters, aching bodies struggling to climb the stairs after a particularly hard week in P&E. The first time I met Agent Townsend, I'd wanted him to feel as badly as I felt; and standing there that morning, I thought maybe he did.
Especially when the lights suddenly flashed on and I heard my mother say, "Well, hello."
I saw him squint and jump - watched him turn to take in the woman by the door, but I don't know what if surprise would be the right word to describe it.
"Welcome to the Gallagher Academy, Agent Townsend. We're so happy to have to you here."
Note to self: Rachel Morgan is a totally awesome liar.
"I wanted to say hello at breakfast, but . . ." She studied his haggard face. "I can see that you perhaps needed to sleep in."
Townsend slowly turned his gaze toward me. "It must have been something I ate."
"I'm very sorry to hear that, our chef usually gets nothing but rave reviews." Mom strolled across the front of the classroom. She kept her arms crossed, staring out the window, before slowly turning to the rest of the class. "Hello, girls."
There was a splattering of hellos and welcome backs, but for the most part we were quiet
- waiting.
"I must say, when the Gallagher trustees told me that the CIA and MI6 had recommended you for the position, I was surprised. I hope the pace at our little school isn't too slow for you."