I heard the door shut. I ran to see my dad's hurt face.
And the questions started.
"Where's mommy? Is she still in the car?" My voice filled with hope. I knew there was always a chance my parents might not come back from their 'business' trips. But I knew he didn't -couldn't- answer. "Is she dead?"
He kneeled to my height. "I don't know, sweetie. She's MIA." I heard him choke on his words, his mask slipping. Missing in action? How? He swallowed me in a hug. Neither of us shedding a tear. Spies don't do that. They don't show emotion, even if it hurts like this does. My dad never did-if he did, it was a cover. I want to be as good as him. I'm only seven, but I think I'll be good.
I've never been like my mom. She disappears easily while I crave attention. I'll die without it. She was and always will be The Chameleon.
Dad released me, and I ran straight to the photo, tore it from its frame, and got to work. I cut it into a small heart and placed it into the locket I've hated every since I got it on my fifth birthday. I slipped on the locket. I stared at the picture; every second seemed like an hour. It was the picture of all of us washing the car before they left. It was one of the few things we've done as a family. Mom and Dad would always be out on missions.
My parents did lots of missions; lots of missions means high expectations for me when I'm older. They were the best. I am the daughter of Zachary Goode and Cameron Morgan.
Maybe I'll be the best.