And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.
As I stepped forward I saw elevators—dozens of them—lining the wall that curved behind us. Stainless steel letters above the elevator from which we’d just emerged spelled out women’s wear, mall. To the right, another was labeled men’s room, roslyn metro station.
A screen on top of the elevator flashed our names. rachel morgan, department of operative development. I glanced at Mom as the screen changed. cameron morgan, temporary guest.
There was a loud ding, and soon david duncan, identifying characteristics removal division was emerging from the elevator labeled saint sebastian confessional, at which point I totally started freaking out—but not in the Oh-my-gosh-I’m-in-a-top-secret-facility-that’s-three-times-more-secure-than-the-White-House sense. No, my freak-outedness was purely of the This-is-the-coolest-thing-that’s-ever-
happened-to-me sense, because, despite three and a half years of training, I’d temporarily forgotten why we were here.
“Come on, sweetie,” Mom said, taking my hand and pulling me through the atrium, where people climbed purposefully up the spiraling stairs. They carried newspapers and chatted over cups of coffee. It was almost . . . normal. But then Mom approached a guard who was missing half his nose and one ear, and I thought about how when you’re a Gallagher Girl, normal is a completely relative thing.
“Welcome, ladies,” the guard said. “Place your palms here.” He indicated the smooth counter in front of him, and as soon as we touched the surface I felt the heat of the scanner that was memorizing my prints. A mechanical printer sprang to life somewhere, and the guard leaned down to retrieve two badges.
