Because even though the truthcan set you free, that doesn't mean it won't be painful.

 "My name is Cammie."

"No, what's your full name?"asked the man in front of the polygraph machine, as if I weren't wearing theaforementioned (and supposedly nonexplosive) name badge.

I thought about my mother'swords of wisdom and took a deep breath. "Cameron Ann Morgan."

The room around me wascompletely bare, except for a stainless steel table, two chairs, and a mirrormade of one-way glass. I probably wasn't the first Gallagher Girl to sit inthat sterile room—after all, debriefs area part of the covert operations package. Still, I couldn't help squirmingin the hard metal chair—maybe because it was cold in there, maybe because I wasnervous, maybe because I was experiencing a slight underwear situation. (Noteto self: develop a wedgie theory of interrogation—there could totally besomething to it!) But the efficient-looking man in the wire-rim glasses was toobusy twisting knobs and punching keys, trying to figure out what the truthsounded like coming from me, to care about my fidgeting.

"The Gallagher Academydoesn't teach interrogation procedures until we're juniors, you know?" Isaid, but the man just muttered, "Uh-huh."

"And I'm just asophomore, so you shouldn't worry about the results coming out all screwy oranything. I'm not immune to your powers of interrogation." Yet.

"Good to know," hemumbled, but his eyes never left the screens.

"I know it's juststandard protocol, so just…ask away." I was babbling, but couldn't seem tostop. "Really," I said. "Whatever you need to know, just—"