"And was The Subjectgiven memory-modification tea to erase the events of that night?"

It sounded so easy coming fromhim, so black-and-white. Sure, my mom gave Josh some tea that's supposed towipe a person's memory blank, erase a few hours of their life, and giveeveryone a clean slate. But clean slates are a rare thing in any life—especially a spy's life—so I didn't let myself wonderfor the millionth time what Josh remembered about that night, about me. Ididn't torture myself with any of the questions that might never have answersas I sat there, knowing that there is no such thing asblack-and-white—remembering that my whole life is, by definition, a little bitgray.

I nodded, then muttered,"Yes." Like it or not, I knew I had to say the word out loud.

He made some more notes,punched some keys. "Are you currently involved with The Subject in anyway?"

"No," I blurted,because I knew that much was true. I hadn't seen Josh, hadn't spoken to him,hadn't even hacked into his e-mail account over winter break, which, givenpresent circumstances, turned out to be a pretty good thing. (Plus, I had spentthe last two weeks in Nebraska with Grandpa and Grandma Morgan, and they havedial-up, which takes forever!)

Then the man in the wire-rimglasses looked away from the screen and straight into my eyes. "And do youintend to reinitiate contact with The Subject despite strict rules prohibitingsuch a relationship?"

There it was: the question I'dpondered for weeks.

There I was: Cammie theChameleon—the Gallagher Girl who hadrisked the most sacred sisterhood in the history of espionage. For a boy.

"Ms. Morgan,"Polygraph Guy said, growing impatient, "are you going to reinitiatecontact with The Subject?"

"No," I said softly.

Then I glanced back at thescreen to see if I was lying.