At a comfortable home in Visalia, California, if you were to look up at one of the upstairs windows, you would find the face of a dark haired, fourteen year old girl looking out over the front lawn. Further observation would confirm that the small, fragile girl had been crying, although she would never admit it, not even to herself.

She wore a comfy t-shirt and a figure complimenting pair of dark but faded blue jeans, undoubtedly her favorite pair. Although it was summertime and she didn't have school, the girl was as pale as winter made all, and looking at her one assumed that she was generally the bookworm sort who spent the summer doing assignments that her teachers gave her and reading the new Harry Potter book. One would be surprised to find that her character was quite contrary to her appearance.

Angela. Angela Edmunds was her name. She lived with her mother, whom she fought with constantly. About the teenager sort of things, like boys and clothing, but Angela was always looking for an argument mainly because of her mom's strict restraint of Angela from her father, although being a strong, sure soul wouldn't admit it unless she felt like doing so.

But the restraint didn't stop at her father. Her mom had been sure to keep her away from her granddad as well. That was really 'it' on the family side as far as Angela knew. Her mother told her that everyone else was dead.

Now, Angela was thinking about what her mother said about both her dad and her grandfather. She was about twelve when her mother had finally come around to telling her that she wasn't really her mother and about everyone else who she had been kept from for all of her life.

"Angela, I'm not really your mom," the pained voice echoed in her brain as though it were only a week ago.

She didn't really understand at first, but as soon as she'd found out the complications of her mother giving her up and her father running away to be an agent all over again, she didn't want her mom. But her dad…her dad had tried, right? Maybe he'd want her if she gave him the chance. And her grandfather; he was a bad dad, but he'd never been given the chance at being a granddad.

"What was his name?" she had asked, soaking up every detail of the conversation that she could.

"Chase Edmunds," came a cold, hurt reply.

And about her granddad, and why her mother hated them:

"The place that they worked was horrible. People died everywhere you turned. All sorts of people, even the good guys. CTU is…" she couldn't seem to find the exact words to describe it. Eventually she dropped it, and continued, "Your grandfather pushed any and everyone who tried to get close to him away for his job. For an agent, he was very dedicated. Truthfully, the best of the best. However, being an agent was more important to him than being a dad, and…" her mom broke off for a moment to regain her composure, carefully selecting the right words. "And there's something very wrong with that. If that's the way he is as a dad, than I don't want your heart broken when he's not a good granddad,"

"And his name?" she'd pressed for more.

"Jack. Jack Bauer," came the firm reply.

And that was it. There was to be no more discussion after that, her mom had made that very clear. But Angela had a yearning to know more than what her mom could tell her.

Angela stood up, as if in a final decision. She knew whom to call. She packed a bag of things she might want or need on her journey, a jacket, her life savings, her cell phone, a notebook and pen, and a camera.

Before putting the notepad and pen in her bag, she wrote her mom a note:

Mom,

I'm all right. You say that I wouldn't want to know my dad and granddad, but you're wrong, because I do. You say it was wrong to be deprived of your dad for all of those years that he was so distant that he wasn't there at all, right? My dad's not here at all, either, mom, and you're depriving me of my dad just like you were yourself. You say that you do this for my safety, both physical and emotional. But I can't stand not knowing any longer. I'm going to find out for myself and make my own mistakes. I'm sorry, I am, but please understand that I need to do this.

Love you,

Angela

Satisfied, she left it on her bedside table. She slung her bag around her neck, and walked out of her room.

"Mom," she called on her way down the stairs, "I'm going to go for a little walk to the park. Is that alright?"

"Sure, just be back in time for dinner," Agreed her blonde-haired mother.