Over and Run With - A Gallagher Girls Story

Chapter Fourteen

Aunt Bex had never once been speechless for as long as I have known her. She was always the first to a quip, the easiest to a laugh, and the most likely to tell a grand, arching story about whatever her latest adventures were. She was the definition of charm. The epitome of articulate. When Aunt Bex spoke, everyone in the room listened, not just because they had to, but because they desperately, eagerly wanted to.

She didn't have anything to say, just then, and the line filled up with static once more.

It was Townsend who finally caught the moment. "Morgan," he said, and there was no question to it. I almost gave him some grief about codenames, but this hardly seemed like the time. "Morgan, what have you done? Your father is so..."

He searched for a word, but I knew he wouldn't find one. I had seen Dad's grief firsthand. His panic. His pain. I had seen it, I had felt it, and I knew that there was no single word, phrase, or sound that could adequately describe the fear of having your loved ones leave. "Hi, Townsend."

"Your family is very worried about you," he said, not even missing a beat. It felt strange, coming from him, because he never spoke in emotion. Only in fact. My family's worry was a cold, objective truth. "I'm very worried about you."

Or maybe my leaving was enough to make even Townsend emotional.

Aunt Bex was far less sentimental. "Morgan Ann, when we find out where you are, I swear to the Lord above—"

"Duchess," said Townsend, and his voice was cool as ever. "Evidently, we are not on a secure line of communication, so perhaps it's best to watch what we say next."

"I'll show you a clear line of communication."

"Charming as ever," he said, thoroughly uncharmed. "Morgan, it's imperative that we know how you've intercepted our communication."

It's hard to explain what happened next. It was three different feelings happening all at once, and it felt like the static had finally crawled into my brain. There was the fear that any agent knows—realizing that their mission has been compromised and that the safety of their confidants was at risk. There was a white-hot excitement as a residual reflex called out to me, eager to tell my family that I had done it; I had found the Gathering.

And then there was a horrible, gutting dread as I realized that, for any of this to work—for all of that grief and panic and pain to be worth something—then I couldn't tell them the truth. I couldn't even give them one little hint.

When I was little, Townsend gave me a cutout to use if ever I was in too deep. If ever we were in a situation that I couldn't see a way out of. It was a single word, easy to fit into a conversation, and I had never once needed it. But I knew—more than I knew anything else in that moment—that if I were to say it, he would know what to do. Even after all of these years, he would know what to do, and he would drop everything to make it happen.

I thought back to what Luke had told me on the night we left the safe house together. My family would cross the globe if it meant that I was safe.

If I used the cutout, he would find a way to find me. No doubt about it.

"Radio frequency," I said, answering a question that already felt long gone. "I don't have much time to explain how, but I need you to do something for me."

This whole conversation was like walking along the edge of a cliff—I was on one side, Bex and Townsend were on the other. If we were very careful, we might be able to meet in the middle, but if either of us slipped, it was going to be a long fall to the bottom. "Are you in trouble?"