*Cowers in shame*

I'm AWFUL sorry! I'm so ashamed right now.

Please, guys, kick me next time I take this long to update! (Thanks to The-Gallagher-Girl-Zammie for making me feel guilty! – But in a good way, so that I would update :P)

If you ever want to go on the run, allow yourself three months to get used to things.

Why? I'll tell you why.

At one month, you're nowhere near accustomed to a whole new life. You're still waiting for everything to settle down. You're in a completely different environment, meeting different people, going different places. It's all new.

Yeah, two months is definitely better. By no means are you adjusted, but you're on the road there. Perhaps you'll have a job, and a stable place to live at. You're probably making more and more friends, and getting used to the idea of leaving everything you had behind.

So, I think you can see why three months is best. In twelve weeks, friends are made and secured, if you're a spy, like I am, you'll know your way around like the back of your hand, you know where the best places are to shop, eat, hang out at…

So that's what I've done; I've given myself three months.

A surprising amount of things have happened in those three months.

Patricia practically forced me to stay in her spare room, even though I insisted I could find somewhere else. I found a reasonable-paying job at a local café, as a waitress. I even looked into some college courses, but not too seriously, seeing as I knew my 'old life' would come back one day. I couldn't run forever.

So now I'm simply sitting in my room – my room… it's so great to say that – reading through some pamphlets on cooking. Sadly, I inherited my mother's 'skills'…

It's a strange feeling being normal, or as normal as I get. I never actually thought that I, Cameron Morgan, daughter of MIA Matthew Morgan and Rachel Morgan, could be normal. But, then again, everyone from my old life presumes that I'm dead. I suppose that helps.

"Emily!" Patricia calls from downstairs. "We're out of milk; could you run to the shops and get some?"

See? A perfect example of something weirdly normal.

I put down the pamphlets and yell back, "Sure! I was just about to go for a run, anyway! I'll get some on the way back."

She says something indistinctly, and I slide off my bed to get changed. I pull on my favourite blue running shorts and a white shirt and pick up my sneakers. They're a new pair – and are that first-day-of-school white – that I bought with my first wages from my job.

Any money I've had before now has felt tainted, probably because it's been stolen, given to me by others, or earned in ways I don't even want to think about. And, thus, whatever I have bought with it feels dirtied and just… wrong.

I pull on the sneakers, too, and bound down the stairs, waving a cheery goodbye to Patricia, who's making strawberry jam on her tiny stove. She gives a kindly nod and then returns to her cooking.

Out the front door, the world is calm. We live quite a distance from any main roads, so traffic is rare, apart from the occasional friendly neighbours. The trees that line the streets, that were, only a few months ago, plain and bare, are laden with beautiful purple flowers. Not being a flower-expert, I can't tell you what sort they are, only that they make me fill with pride every time I see them.

My sneakers crush the dead petals which litter the sidewalks, as I break into a run.

The morning is cool, and the bitter air bites at my exposed legs, arms and face, but somehow I don't mind it.

I run towards the centre of town, waving joyful hellos at anyone I recognise. A chubby man named Andre, who owns the local grocery store, chuckles at me and waves one of his prized cauliflowers my direction, so I decide to stop and chat.

"How are you, Andre?" I reflect on how nice it is to have friends.

"Ah, Emily! I am good! But I have not seen you in a long time; I feared you were ill!" he booms back.

Sure, it's weird having people call me a name that isn't mine, but I'm used to it. After all, I had plenty of weirder covers as a spy.

"Oh, no, I've been feeling just fine." I give him another smile. "Patricia says to tell you that she's sorry she hasn't been around in a while. Come to think of it, she's been quite busy lately."

Andre twirls his small goatee, and raises his thick, black eyebrows. "Oh? What with?"

"I have no idea, actually."

After chatting with Andre for a few more minutes, I continue my run, checking around for any tails, because old habits die hard.

There's a lady pushing a pram; an old man arguing with his friend over a bet; a guy about my age getting into a flash car. And that's what stopped me; no one in this town owns such an expensive thing.

My heart rate quickens, and I push myself to go faster. Deep breaths don't calm me down much. I notice the car doesn't follow, but I know, if they're smart, they'll have other people following me. That's if anyone is actually tailing me.

I turn the corner into a deserted street, and realise too late it's a bad move. Deserted street equals fewer witnesses. Before I can correct my mistake, someone clothed in black jumps into my path and lands a blow to my face.

Instinctively, I throw up my arms and block all of their punches. Whilst they're trying to knock my legs out from underneath me, I chop at their neck with one palm. My attacker gasps for breath, and turns purple when I punch them in the stomach. They keel over and lay motionless on the pavement.

Quickly, I bend down and rip off their mask. It's a woman I've never seen before in my life. But I can tell she's not a good guy. There's a strange tattoo on her neck, depicting a dragon curled around a sword. Underneath it, in Chinese, there is a name; 'CORTER.' Somehow I doubt it's someone's name.

But I don't want to stay around to find out what her name is. I drag her behind some scratchy bushes and slap a Forgetful Napotine patch on her forehead, which means she won't recall any of the morning's events.

I sprint back into town and dart through the ever-growing crowd, hoping my tails will lose me in it. I pull my hair out of its pony-tail, so that if they're looking for a neat hairdo, they won't find it on me.

It takes me half the morning to be sure that no one is following me. I can only hope they don't know where I'm staying. I return to Patricia's house, out of breath and shaking.

Without answering her questions, I dart upstairs, questions and worries plaguing my brain. The main two seem to be; who is out for me, apart from the obvious? And, should I move out of Patricia's house?

Eventually, I come to the decision to stay a couple more days with her and then move on to somewhere else. I really need a shower.

I pull off my white shirt and throw it on the striped duvet, fanning my face. Pushing my hair back, I walk into the small bathroom across the hall and splash it with some cool water. As I straighten up and wipe my face dry, something in the corner of the room catches my eye.

I whirl around, standing at the ready to attack. But then I tense and my mouth drops open from sheer shock.

"Grant?"

Ah, cliffy! Sorry, guys, you really don't deserve a cliffy. But I had to.

Perhaps I'll update another chapter again today…

A couple of days ago, I got this brilliant (if I may say so) idea for where this story is headed. And, trust me; it'll be better than 'Traitor'...

Once again, I apologise for the late update. I appreciate all your patience and reviews.