I left the Gallagher Academy three years ago to find answers. And I got them. I've got the scars to prove it. But I don't want to talk about that. They were right; sometimes it's better not to know the whole story. Sometimes it's better to just leave the unanswered questions that seem so important alone.

I don't know if I can still be considered a spy. Before I left Gallagher, I made sure to do everything possible to make sure no-one would find me. And I'd like to keep it that way. Because I can only imagine what they'd think of me. For leaving them. My friends, my family, my teachers...Zach. I've learnt how to block them out of my mind, to numb the pain. I've taught myself not to react to the memories. Because I've figured everything would be easier that way. I knew the Circle of Cavan was trying to find me. I know they still are trying to find me. Like anyone who's being chased, you've got to hide. And who's better at hiding than the Chameleon herself?

But I won't let them find me. I'm the Chameleon. That's the only part of me left, the only part of me I know is still there. It's always been, always will be.

So I guess it still makes me a spy.

I now live in California. When people say 'I live in...' we automatically associate that place to being their home. But L.A. isn't my home. The vines creeping up the walls of a stone mansion, the dusty passageways, the secrets and laughters echoing in the hallways. That's my home. But I know I'll never be able to go back. So, I try to call L.A. my home. I know that it might never actually be my home, but it is for the hollow shell left of the person I used to be.

But truthfully, the main reason I moved to L.A. was because it is far away from all the ghosts of my past, and the people I care so much about. Because I realized when I was out there, desperately trying to find answers, that I made a mistake. That there is no turning back now.

*Flashback*

The man is sitting in the chair. He is very still. His coal-pit eyes seem to be glossed over with a dull sheen. Even the hot, summer air hasn't melted the ice in his eyes. I reach over. I lift his hand. I intertwine my fingers with his. It feels distant, wrong, as if the spaces between our fingers are miles apart. I think, Just because he is breathing, doesn't mean he is alive. He is dead. So I let go of my father's hand. And I wait for the tears to come. But they don't. I look away from him, my breath coming out in shaky gasps. I hate Mom. For not telling me, for hiding him away all these years so I wouldn't see how he changed. I know I will change too. So I decide then and there I'm not going back. Ever. And I realize that I am already changed.

*Reality*

Because if I come back, I will be different. That would hurt the people I love more than anything else in the world. And seeing them hurt would hurt me more than a million bullets to my chest. That sort of pain will go away- it'll float for a while, and then fade like clouds over the horizon. But the worst kind is the one that stays heavy and regretful in your heart.

The sky is dirt grey this morning. I get up to the sound of my alarm clock, but I am already awake. I've always been alert and ready, because, well, a spy's got to be. But after 'what happened,' as I will refer to it now, I barely get any sleep.

I get ready for work. I am now Dina Roberts. I work at Smithon's Crime Law Firm LLP. I am shy. I do not talk often. I chose to study law because I believe in justice and know a thing or two about crime. I take a deep breathe as I remember that all legends have roots in the truth. I walk out of the house and spot a body sprawled across the pavement, possibly due to the party across the street held last night. My spy gut tells me to go check it's pulse. I can almost feel the comms unit in my ear, hear my friends' voices. But I ignore it. Even though I now know I'll always and will forever be a spy, I've taught myself to ignore that part of me whenever possible. Especially now, being Dina.

I get to work.

"Dina, are you okay?" Celia, a colleague, asks as she walks into my small office space. "You look quite pale. I brought you some coffee."

She hands me a mug. "Yeah, I'm fine, thanks," I mumble as I sip the frothy liquid and finish it off in under a minute. I settle the cup back on the table and wait for her to leave. She hurries off, and I feel bad. But that's my cover, so I brush off the guilt. I sigh as I reach for the never-ending stack of paperwork. The hardest part about being a spy is the paperwork, my mother once told me. Same for the law business.

Celia is the new intern. She is twenty, the same age as me. I did multiple background checks on her, because, well, you know. She used to live in Texas but moved to L.A. to stay with her sickly mother. She is very tall, with defined muscles from her passion for cross-country running. She has tanned skin with curly black hair that reaches her shoulders, and her eyes are bright green. She blinks more frequently than most people (64 times a minute, compared to the average of 40). She has impeccable posture when she sits, rubs her neck when she's nervous before important meetings, talks with her hands folded neatly behind her back and constantly stares at me. She has a very prominent southern accent. She likes to wear black.

I work all day. I use a calculator for the math equations even though I can do them all in my head. My cup of coffee is my only stimulant, yet I feel myself slowly drifting off...

The clock on the wall strikes midnight. The loud chime echoes through the quiet night air, jolting me awake from my hazy sleep. Dazed and disoriented, I look up. I am in the office, and it dawns on me that I must have fallen asleep working. I grapple for the cup of coffee which has tipped over on my desk, and bring the cool ceramic to my lips. A single drop of liquid snakes and slithers down my parched throat, into my hollow stomach. Shoving my paperwork aside, I slip my feet into my high-heels and make my way out of the eery place. My heels click noisily against the marble floor as I head to the door, but I stop before I open it.

A familiar sensation overcomes me.I whirl around. And I can't help myself, I gasp. Because, in my head, gears and wheel are churning and spinning. I mentally peel off the black wig, remove the green contacts, strip of the button nose, wipe away the freckles on her neck. And I see Celia become Bex.

"Hi Cammie," she whispers, and I start to cry at the sound of her soft British voice.

I don't know what to do. I can't hug her because we're not friends anymore. She was friends with Cammie. Not...me. And she knows that just as well as I do.

The silence that follows is the loudest thing I've ever heard. Bex breaks it.

"Cammie. I-I-don't know what to say. I can't ask you to come back. But...I just don't know. I don't know if they want to see you. Do you want to see them? I'm so...confused."

Bex is gone. She's like me. All that's left of her is a shell. I can't stand what I've done to her. The regret and pain I feel is overwhelming, because I realize I killed my best friend. And by doing so I've killed me. To think that I did this to Bex, the strongest, bravest person I know, I can't even imagine what I did to the others...I start to sob even harder. I hate myself, and by the look in her eyes, she knows that I do. But she doesn't do anything to comfort me, and I honestly don't know if I want her to. I try to see how she sees me. Fragile? Sensitive? Stubborn? Weak?

I feel my legs buckle and I collapse on the floor. I sit there, shaking and crying like never before. And I suddenly realize how she's seeing me. She knows that just because I am breathing, doesn't mean I am alive. I am dead.

Suddenly, she leaps at me. I hear a bang. I see Bex's body go limp even before the bullet pierces through the still air and into her chest.

And that's when I hear the scream.

Everything after that feels like slow motion. I remember lurching forward, throwing myself at the fallen girl in front of me. I remember cool, silken hands pressing against my neck, I remember seeing the deep black orb of the gun barrel as it lifted to my head. I remember seeing a window, it's reflection pearly from the wispy moonlight. I remember running, and then glass shattering around me, cutting deep into my tender skin. I remember free-falling, the wind rushing past my body whipping blood stained hair around my face. I remember a sickening thud, and I remember struggling, sinking, drowning, fading, gasping for breath, fighting to breathe, to stay alive. I remember how darkness suddenly enveloped me.

I remember how everything went black.

It isn't until now, when I hear the sirens and the beeping and the cries and yelps, when I feel the wires and the tubes sucking the life in and out of me, I realize the scream had come from me. But the frantic commotion buzzing around me, it is strangely quiet. As if the noise is far, far away, like experiencing the world from under water. I can feel the heavy water closing and pressing around me, but I don't try to fight it, to break the surface gasping like I had before. I am still drowning, yet I am floating in a comforting bliss of space and time and...hope.

Because I see the faces of the people I love the most. Liz. Macey. Zach. Joe. Abby. Mom.

I even see Bex lying in a stretcher, tears streaming down her face, reaching for me, screaming my name, yet still finding the strength that I admire so much to smile at me.

And I also see

Dad.

"You're going to be fine..."

"Don't leave us..."

"Please...Gallagher Girl..."

"Stay calm and breathe"

"...Squirt, whyd'ya do that?"

"Kiddo...We love..."

"You."

Cold lips press against mine. Water splatters my face. Beeping fills my ears.

I close my eyes, and I see, at the end of the tunnel, a tiny, shining, glimmer of light. Of hope. So I whisper the words I'd been wanting to say for the longest time.

"I love you too."