"God forbid," She murmured at the foot of my bed when she thought I was asleep. She kissed my forehead. "God forbid the moment you let all those walls down and fall in love." She smoothed my hair down, "Your mom used to say love's a roller-coaster, Hon. So buckle in, just for her." She got up, tucked me in, and closed the light. I could see the outline of her body through the small crack of my eyelids as she leaned against the door frame. "M'kay," She murmurs to herself with a sigh, "Just…she loves you, baby. Please remember that."

That was the only time she talked of my mother

I had no choice but to remember.

Two weeks later, the guests leave.

One week after that, Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Ladies and Gentlemen went to hell.

I wake with the answers Mr. Smith provided circling my brain. They were adequate and inconclusive. It gave me no insight but it gave me enough to work with for the rest of the month I will be staying.

I do my usual routine before going to the cafeteria for breakfast (use the washroom, make sure my wig is in place, wear Cameron clothes, etc.).

I take the long way for some reason. My gut is wound up tight and I don't like the feeling that made my body tense and on alert. My fingers tap against my baggy black jeans in foreshadowing anxiety. I don't know what is in store for today, but I don't like it.

As I make my way down the long staircase towards the strong smell of breakfast, I am stopped by the nurse. Her concern hid the anger I am sure is there. She asks a few questions, checks my temperature, then, seemingly satisfied, lets me continue on my way.

But now I am tense because that didn't seem like a usual nursing checkup. That felt fake, cheap, and hurriedly prolonged. It felt like part of a plot. My nerves heighten; my fever ended when the guests left and although there might be a chance that she didn't know, it would've been less than a 1% chance.

The guests left a week and a half ago. As the students and staff line up at the front steps to bid a formal farewell, my eyes latch on the Prankster and my eyebrows furrow as he winked before entering his form of transportation, which is a large limo with darkly tinted windows, a driver, and seats that can fit an amount of twelve or more. If I wasn't positive that something was off, I know now that there is.

I find it lucky that the guests left when they did because as soon as the nurse turned the corner, I start to sprint to the cafeteria. Once I got in though, everything seems to be normal. The students are in their normal spots and so were the teachers. Though, when I scan the seats for Mr. Smith, he locks eyes with me.

I now know, my gut was right. On the dot, from what Mr. Smith has told me the night before.

My back stiffens but I go about as if it is a normal day. I gather my usual breakfast food, grasping the sharpest knife in the bunch. I already have various forms of weaponry on me but I know the more I have, the more of a chance I have.

I walk to my table in the corner, where the shadow casually hides me and where it is easier for me to scout. I scan; up, down, left, right. No danger in sight—Yet.

I slowly chew and swallow my food, knowing what will happen if I scarf it down and got up to fight right after. Fighting causes enough injuries and pain but it would make you up to ten times for vulnerable to fight with, say, cramps.

As I slowly sip my drink, I realise why I feel so unnerved. If there is any possibility of being attacked, my lack of hesitation to protect the students and fellow spies of this school is absent. The realisation makes me grip the knife in my other hand until my knuckles turn white.

I muse over it. Around two months ago, if any student here were to die, I wouldn't have spared the announcement a second thought. Now, I was willing to kill, and possibility, be killed for them. It makes me vulnerable. Now, they can hold someone against me. And I refuse to let that happen for the second time.

I do a second quick scan. A shiver runs up my spine. I glance to Mr. Smith.

I nod.

He speaks quietly to his colleagues.

And

The moment I stand

It begins.

"Mr. Smith."

"Yes, Cameron?" A mocking smile painted his lips.

"Where were you on the night I was taken away?"

His eyes darkened, "You know damned well where I was."

And I did; but only the picture painted by my Aunt Abby. The one where Mr. Smith was held captive—tortured—for the whereabouts of my family. For months (my aunt liked to stretch on the word, making it seem more important than it actually was) he was kept, until finally he was released.

Exactly one week after my father died and I was taken away from my mother. It seemed fishy, but every time I would get that questioning look on my face, she would get irritated (although she hid it almost enough for me not to notice) for even wondering if it was true because he was held captive! He was mercilessly tortured! And yet still, he kept our whereabouts a secret like the true hero he seemed to be.

But why would they let him go after finding my old home? Why not keep him for more information much more valuable than the secret address of two spies and their kid? Why hadn't Mr. Smith reported them instead of changing his appearance every single year? He sure has the influence to make everyone believe him, after all.

But just like that, he has the influence. Meaning; unless I found someone more persuasive, someone with more power, I can never let Mr. Smith out of our alliance partnership.

So I nod my head, mask my eyes, and ask the next question: "Their coming, aren't they?"

He pursed his lips before rolling them into his mouth. He nods affirmative, "How soon?"

"Sooner than we anticipated," He replies.

"So that would mean…?"

"Any day now. In fact, instead of being a month, they could be here in hours, minutes, seconds," His reply is solid, smooth. I tie my wig up into a messy pony-tail, dust my pants.

I bite my lip. Once they come, it would be game over; lives will be lost, war will be something so palpable threats could be made off them.

But the question is: what do they want? Why do they have to barge into my family's house? Why did they kill? Were they trying to find something? Why?

I ask myself those questions when the numbness washes away; when the sun goes in for another day. But I never get a God dammed answer. Not even when my aunt was alive, not even when my aunt died.

And I swear, the moment I get my hands on the answer, I will not stop until I kill the one who killed my father, my aunt.

"Okay," I smile an eerie smile. "Let's just make it that they regret it, right?"

A sinister grin crosses his lips, "Right."

Knives in both hands, I hop on the table, giving myself leverage to see everything that is going around me but also making me a clear target. Every single staff member is suddenly armed, and so are a few smart students, including Rebecca, Macey, Zachary, and Liz.

The ceiling solidly falls apart, debris hardly straying from the clean-cut.

Covered in black, from head to toe, are Them. The people in the network that killed my father and my aunt. The people set on making appearances in my life for reasons I don't know why but am determined to get. There are more than a few of them, roughly amounting to at least fifty and more are dropping down at the second. The alarm doesn't go off and I come to the conclusion that they have rigged it. They all have weapons and clothes that cover they face. As the last one drops to fight, they move back as a group.

The lower grade students are being quickly ushered out by kitchen staff. The higher grades snatch knives from their meals and form a group similar to Them. The staff line in front and around them.

They have a leader that stands in front. As the room is tense and quiet his voice carries and echoes. "We have not come to fight but if it becomes necessary, we will not hesitate. We only need a specific person and we will leave in peace."

So finally, as I lean back in the shadow to cover me, he tells us what he has looked for all these years.

He opens his mouth, but it is a story I will never believe, "The Headmaster of this school is Rachel Morgan and once upon a time, everyone, this supposedly strong women had a family!" It is dead silent as my mother, in the middle front, steps forward.

"What is it you want? Is it me? Take me if it is, I have nothing you can torture out of me!" My mother yells.

"Oh, it's not you we want," His voice menacing as he talks. "This pathetic women has a daughter."

"SHUT UP!" My mother looks enraged, angrier than any one has ever seen her. She is shaking and her grip tightens on her weapons, looking well enough ready to use them. "Had a daughter. YOU MURDERERS."

Although a mask is covering his face, I know he smiles. "Stop lying. We know your holding her in this very school. But alas, if you will not give her up willingly, we will take her forcibly."

And now all the pieces of the puzzle fit together. They killed my father on that faithful night for me. They murdered my aunt on that horrible day for me. They did not torture Mr. Smith for answers on my parents' whereabouts; they tortured him for my whereabouts.

I am the reason for deaths and much, much more.

I don`t know if it's the surprise of the truth in his voice as he speaks of me being alive in her very school that shakes her and everyone else off their game, but as They charge, they don't move until they are one-fourth away from them.

They don't have a battle call, or a distinguished yell. They are silent, the only noises catching in the bare silence is their grunts and gasps. It is chaos, but They holds an eerie calculation to each stab They do.

I jump off the table and weave my way in the middle of Them. And then my knife attaches itself to my arm like a second skin and I whip it left and right, impaling stomachs and slashing arms. As they get dull, I drop them in a pile of blood and pull out two other sharper and longer ones out of clothes.

I don't stop. My senses are heightened and I'm not that scared little girl who cannot kill, I am a murderer. I'm too numb at the moment to fully realize that I don't know which one of those two statements are worse. And how much that revelation scares me.

But then

"STOP"

His voice carries out over all the grunts and They stop, pause like he just clicked a button on the remote with his voice. And as they pause, most of us do, too.

Suddenly, someone hoists me off of my feet and in a flourish of dread; I know it is close to the end.

"You say you do not have Cammie Morgan? Then tell me, who is this?"

The crowd is quiet. "THAT'S CAMERON CARTER!" Someones voice yells—a boy.

"Is it?" And in the tone of his voice I know nothing good is going to come next. Because he laughs.

In what feels like one movement he strips me bare. I am only in my bra and panties. My scars are open for every one to see and oh, what a sight they are seeing.

And then finally, he yanks my wig off. My blonde hair tumbles down my back and face.

"Cammie?" A whisper—my mother.

He holds one of my knives to my throat.

"Mom."

I really want to swear right now. Three months and a cliffy.

Random Fact: I really hate myself sometimes.