I thought about my mother’s words of wisdom and took a deep breath. “Cameron Ann Morgan.”
The room around me was completely bare, except for a stainless steel table, two chairs, and a mirror made of one-way glass. I probably wasn’t the first Gallagher Girl to sit in that sterile room—after all, debriefs are a part of the covert operations package. Still, I couldn’t help squirming in the hard metal chair—maybe because it was cold in there, maybe because I was nervous, maybe because I was experiencing a slight underwear situation. (Note to self: develop a wedgie theory of interrogation—there could totally be something to it!) But the efficient-looking man in the wire-rim glasses was too busy twisting knobs and punching keys, trying to figure out what the truth sounded like coming from me, to care about my fidgeting.
“The Gallagher Academy doesn’t teach interrogation procedures until we’re juniors, you know?” I said, but the man just muttered, “Uh-huh.”
“And I’m just a sophomore, so you shouldn’t worry about the results coming out all screwy or anything. I’m not immune to your powers of interrogation.” Yet.
“Good to know,” he mumbled, but his eyes never left the screens.
