A/N: This is my first story so please don't be too harsh. I do respect constructive criticism and would love to hear your opinions about how this story should continue.
It smells like ghost.
It's an absurd thing to say. I recognize that. I also recognize that this distracting olfactory reaction I am having as I dive underneath the rusted cast-iron bed and find myself staring into the bottom of its heavily stained mattress—stained with what, I don't want to know—now hanging just inches over the tip my nose has more to do with the neurotic sensibilities that are stimulating the limbic region of my brain than anything else. At least that's what my friend Liz would insist if she were here, using ginormous scientific expressions so that, as Bex puts it, I would "get all confused and just give up." Get over it, Liz would say. It's all in your head. But, whatever. I know this smell. It smells like stubborn bits of history, and, at least based on my recent experiences, that's not always a good thing.
The bits and pieces of scattered memory surface. Names and faces light up in my head. Samuel P. Winters. I'd been flabbergasted when I found out about Preston's dad, and I was still just as disconcerted. Gilly's list was floating insessantly through my consciousness. It had scrambled through my mind everyday since that awful night of my near-death experience: interrupting the scarce copacetic thoughts that I longed for, muddling with my concentration, and frustrating me to no end.
The coms unit crackles in my ear, causing me to jerk upwards and bang my head into the rusty springs above. I mutter a curse word and yank my hair away from the clutching springboards.
"Cam!" Bex's voice is a muffled static in my ear. I attempt to army crawl from below the bed and my butt gets stuck on the mattress. I grunt, and wriggle my body away until I have fully escaped from the constraining confinement.
"Still alive," I answer, "I was just getting aquainted with a rusty matress." Truth is, I had been wandering through a passageway to get to dinner when I heard a low growl omitting from the other side of the corridor. Because of my recent endeavors, I am paranoid about sounds. Yes, I admit that is not an ideal trait of a spy. But I'm working through it. In the mean time, whenever I hear a suspiscious noise I jump and hide. At least I have good reflexes. I got under the rusty mattress in a record 3.67 seconds. Now as I stand up, brush myself off, and look for the source of my disquietude, I realize the noise was only a heater.
"Well I suggest you get your lazy bum up to dinner before people start to worry you've run away again. Besides, Zach is here and he's looking mighty handsome, Mr. Hot Stuff. Annnnd he just heard me say that. No matter. Just get here quick before they send out a search party for you," Bex babbles. Bex and I had taken to wearing a set of coms at all times, thus, she says, preventing me from ever truly being alone. Because she'd been the last to forgive me, I'd obliged, though I secretly turn it off anytime Zach and I are alone.
"Sir yes sir," I respond in mock salute. I prance down the corridor, past the offending heater, and towards the wall-door which I slide to the right and step through. I am now in the main hallway of the Gallagher Academy. I make a left and head for the colossal doorway of the Grand Hall. As I open the doors, I quickly survey my surroundings.
The hall is practically empty. Most people have left for Christmas break. Bex, Macey, Zach, and about twenty-seven other students remain. They're sitting at one large table together, and I make my way over to join them. I squeeze in between Bex and Macey and seat myself across from Zach. Bex hands me a plate of mashed potatoes.
"Hello friends," I say as I pick through the mushy white stuff on my plate. They awkwardly, and not so subtley, glance at each other in a very un-spylike way. My fork hovers mid-bite. "Have I missed something?" It's Zach who clears his throat and sets down his utensils.
"Cams," he begins, not Gallagher Girl, and I know it's serious, "Dr. Steve was spotted 23 miles from a CIA base in London." I nod.
"Well that seems good. They have a lead, and now they can catch him." Zach sighs heavily.
"Cammie, Liz was reported missing 36 minutes ago. She and her family were vacationing 3 miles away from that same CIA base. It seems like her kidnapper is Dr. Steve," Zach's somber tone and the way his eyes never change tell me he's not lying. My friend is missing. And it could possibly be my fault.
A/N: Thanks for reading and please, please review!
Silvya
