Sunlight filtered through my eyelids, creating a horrid rosy glow which filled my head. I groaned, and rolled over onto… empty bed? I flung my arm out, feeling around on the sheet, eyes flickering open as I felt only cool cotton. I sat up as Rob walked through the door between the bedroom and the bathroom, fully dressed, rubbing his hair with a towel.

I frowned at him. 'Oh…. I missed it.'

He grinned at me, and lifted me up off the bed. 'You're right. I'm not feeling squeaky clean yet.' And he pulled me back through the door through which he had come.

o.o.o

Fully rejuvenated, I arrived downstairs to find a whole wad of paper sitting in the fax machine. I sighed. Up until now I had been able to kid myself that I was helping without actually doing anything. Leafing through pages of typed 'FBI Confidential' headed paper, I came to what I was looking for. Photos.

The first four pictures were the sort of which I had come across before. Holiday snapshots or uncomfortable school photos of mostly cute, but always perfectly normal children. Josephine Lumley was first; a mousy little child in shades of brown-mud brown eyes, olive brown skin, chocolate brown hair. On the next page was Edward Toolson, every parents dream, a blond, blue-eyed, slightly chubby little boy of about three. Floppy brown dreadlocks adorned the next child, easily the most stunning of them all. Her eyes, contrary to those of Josephine's, were a warm, rich brown, although the two pairs did share the same cheeky glint. Pearly whites stood out of her dark, clear skin, and the photo was captioned 'Nyeema Barnaby'. The third child didn't share the attractiveness of those before him, but he had the same impudent smile and cheeky glint in his eyes. He was unremarkable, but for this very reason he stood out. I memorised his name, Franklin Bradburn, along with the names of the others for future reference.

It was the last child who was different. This child was clearly the eldest of the bunch; she had to have been seven. Her features were erratic; she looked as though somebody had had a bag of mismatched pieces left over from making the world, and decided to throw them altogether and create this mish mash of a face. She had a finely sculptured, almost perfect nose, but this was where the perfection stopped. Her eyes were widely spaced, and very flat, her mouth large and thin. Her ears stuck out like handles, and the combination of all these things, planted on her milky, obviously part-Latino skin was bizarre. But the thing that set her apart from any other child I had met was her piercing, determined eyes. In them was concealed intelligence and maturity far beyond her years, and the defiance and pride with which she met the photographer full on was breathtaking. I knew, instinctively, that this Emily Carlos was the Chief's child.

Rob came up behind me, and, resting his chin on my head, surveyed the children in much the same way I had. When he came to Emily, he let out a long, low whistle, and turned my head to meet his eyes. 'What is it about her,' he asked 'that's so…special? So…captivating?'

I knew exactly what he meant, but I didn't know how to answer him. 'I'm not sure. We're going to have to wait and see.'

He looked at me, and lifted one side of his mouth lazily. 'One thing's for sure. She is a taste of things to come. This case's going to be a hard one.' And he graced me with a full smile.

Although the problem at hand seemed complicated from all the material Krantz had sent me, there was another task which I had to take care of which seemed to me to be even harder.

I had to tell my mother I was going to be living in sin with a man who was not only two years older than me, a Grit, and with a police record (sealed, as Rob kept reminding me) but one who was not Skip.

I had a feeling she would not be ecstatic.

First up was a call home. Luckily my father picked up, and I quickly arranged with him for Rob and me to have dinner at their place that night. The rest of that morning was spent in a frenzy of planning what to say, when to say it, what to wear, what to bring, when to go. I had no idea how I was going to tell my mother, but I had a funny feeling that whichever way I did it, I was going to stuff up a very important relationship in my life. Either I told her, and wrecked the relationship between us even further, or I didn't, and the relationship I had with Rob would lie in tatters. I had made my choice already, though, and I knew it was the right one.

When I had made the decision to move into Rob's house, I hadn't thought about how much depended on it, and how much I was going to be hurt whichever choice I made. But I was determined I had made the right one, and was going to have to try and do the best I could, while ironing out the kinks.

o.o.o

After several hours of frenzy, I got over myself, and settled down to Google some stuff for the case. I figured I may as well make myself (constructively) busy. None of the kids had any hits on Google, nor did their surnames. I was reasonably surprised at this (most FBI agents have at least a mention-Cyrus is plastered all over Google) but not worried. Oh no. I was not worried. Because I had the mother of all search engines hidden away on my laptop.

Okay.

Maybe not technically my laptop.

It's a laptop I, kind of, um…

Borrowed from the FBI.

I had to take a memento with me when I left, didn't I?

Well, I think it was fair. The least they could do was give me a top of the range, million dollar (okay, maybe not quite) laptop.

So I had this awesome, confidential search machine on my laptop which could give me anything. No, seriously. If I wanted to I could dig up dirty laundry on God. These measly little FBI agents weren't going to be a problem.

But when I typed in Josephine's name, nothing came up. And when I typed in her father's name, which I got from Krantz's notes, nothing came up either.

And it was the same with all the other children and their parents. And it made me think; if all the information the FBI has on these agents is so confidential that even the most select members who have access to this search machine can't access it, who were these people?

Obviously Krantz was not telling me something.