The Sleuth Will Set You Free - A Gallagher Girls Story

Chapter Nine

Number of check-ups in the week that followed: 8

Number of jokes Scout made about my bra: 17

Number of essays I tried to convince him to excuse me from: 4

Number of essays I was actually excused from: 0

Number of times Bill said my name in that same week:  27

Number of times he said Will's: 163

It had been nearly a year since my father had told me not to go back there again.  It wasn't safe.  It wasn't rational.  It wasn't healthy.  When I went back there, I was a fire, burning myself out, and that room was the kindling that kept me aflame.  When I disappeared into that massive, freezing, secret room of mine, I burned.

So that night, as I pulled out the copy of Spymasters of the Ming Dynasty and watched the bookcase unfold, I knew that I wasn't going back to that room.  I mean it.  There was no part of me that wanted to go back there—not when I stepped into the secret passageway.  Not when I took the torch from the wall or when I shuffled through the stench of burning dust.  Not even when I stared at that brick wall and felt the breeze wisp across my neck, raising each of my hairs to their ends.  Nope.  Not even then.

There was a fleeting second when I thought about Luke Collins and wondered what he would say just then.

I let my burning palms fall against frozen stone, knowing that it would just take one push—one little push and I would have a few hours to myself.  I'd be alone.  I just wanted to be alone.

But I knew that if I stepped into that room, then I would remember what it all felt like.  What it felt like to helplessly follow the wrong lead for months.  What if felt like to have my mother leave for good.  What if felt like to have my father hold me there, not daring to look around at the room his daughter ran away to when she was feeling particularly crazy.

And so I took a step back.  And I left.  And I knew that sometimes—just sometimes—fathers know better than their daughters.

Some part of me knew that I needed to go back to my bedroom.  That people would start to worry about me soon. Still, I wandered, letting myself bask in the peace that came with absolute silence for just a few minutes longer. 

But the silence was cut off when I heard my father's voice.  "How's our guy in Rome doing?"

My heart clenched, thinking that I had been busted, but the voice wasn't coming from behind me.  It was coming through the walls, more likely, through the slash of light that chiseled at brick.  I stepped up to the source, peaking in through the crack in the wall to find my grandmother's office on the other side.  There was an actual secret passageway entrance in Grandma's office.

Of course there was, I realized soon after.  A headmistress at the world's foremost school for spies would surely need a second exit to her room.  This passageway had been designed for speedy escapes and not snooping granddaughters, but I knew that I couldn't pass up hearing my father discuss classified information with his team.

Especially not when his team consisted of Rachel Morgan and Edward Townsend.

"Abby's on him," Grandma said.  She was sitting forward against her desk in the same way she did when I was in trouble.  She was firm.  Focused.  Determined to get the person on the other side of the desk to listen, and listen good.  "But we've had eyes on him for weeks now and—"

"And we strongly suspect that he's clean," Townsend cut in.  "Any affiliation he once had seems to have been wiped out."

Dad threw his head in his hands, raking his fingers through his hair.  To this day, I still think of that look on his face anytime I hear someone talk about frustration.  "No.  No—that's impossible," he groaned.  "He was the best lead we've had in weeks."