The Dying Breath: A Forensic Mystery

He came and stood by the foot of her bed and rested his hand on her bedpost, his thick wedding band flashing in the light. His tone was low, his words reassuring as he leaned in toward her. “We can have an agent pose as Cameryn, but I don’t think they’ll be able to fool this guy for long. Kyle knows you. He understands your style. So, if you agree to continue talking to him, I can assure you that we’ll monitor your every communication. You will be completely safe.”
    “No!” Justin roared.
    Ignoring him, Andrew said, “If you help us, we have a much better chance of getting O’Neil. You can draw this guy out. Will you do it?”
    She wanted to curl away from the terrifying question, but it wasn’t just her life at stake now. There was Justin’s. When she nodded it seemed as though the room erupted. She refused to look at Justin, her father, her grandmother. Instead she kept her eyes locked on Andrew’s, blocking the cacophony of voices that demanded her to stop, that refused to allow her to do what she knew was necessary. The conversation had narrowed. It was between Andrew and Cameryn.
    “How far are you willing to go to catch him? It’s really up to you.” He moved so close they almost touched. “How far, Cammie?”
    And then, in a voice so low only Andrew could hear it, Cameryn replied, “I’ll go as far as it takes.”

    “No way . Tell me you’re not serious,” Lyric demanded as she stretched across Cameryn’s bed on her stomach. She wore a loose caftan covered with huge, multicolored polka dots and a pair of jeans that flared at the knees. Her nails had been painted neon yellow. “Your dad is letting you be the bait in this little government trap? Get out !”
    “I’m not bait,” Cameryn argued. “Not exactly.”
    “It sounds to me like you’re the carrot on the end of a stick, the fly in the web, the honey for the bear, the chum in the water . . . I think I’m running out of colorful metaphors.”
    “Look, every electronic device is being monitored and the agents are hiding practically in plain sight. I’m perfectly safe. They even gave me my BlackBerry back.” She held it up and wagged it in front of her friend’s face. “See?
    “Fabulous.” Lyric sighed, long and loud. “The security fairies promise you’ll be safe, so no worries, right? Nothing could possibly go wrong if the government’s involved!” She rolled over like a sea lion and placed a plump arm across her eyes, as if to block out the afternoon light.
    Lyric had arrived at the Mahoney home the minute school was out, clumping up the stairs twice as fast as usual, the echo of her boots deafening against the wooden treads. At first, Lyric had babbled a list of half-truths that had already blazed through the hallways of Silverton High, her kohl-rimmed eyes wide with excitement. Her mood had darkened, momentarily, when Cameryn calmly explained what had actually happened during the night, but, true to form, she was determined to bring things back to normal. Stories of Adam were wedged between tirades against Tiffany, who “wished she were being stalked so she could be the center of the world again,” and who had been acting “like she knew everything about Kyle.” Lyric’s conversation became a runaway car, filled with bumps, swerves, and screeching brakes, until she veered back to the FBI and asked about security and if that meant everything Cameryn did was being watched.
    “So are they, like, making notes about me right now?” Lyric asked. She picked at a loose thread on the bedspread, winding it around her fingertip, then pulled it away so that it left a tiny coil.
    “Yep,” Cameryn answered. “Every person, every call, every time.”
    “And if I text you they’re going to have a record of everything I write?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “How long is that going to go on? Because I don’t exactly want my words put in some file where the government can see. It would actually bother me more except for the fact that my ramblings aren’t actually interesting enough for anyone to read them more than once.”
    “I know, I know,” Cameryn said, trying to give the impression she was listening. The computer monitor pulled her with its own gravity. From her desk she had a view of her screen, the BlackBerry propped against its side, and the cordless phone she’d set next to them. Her window offered a vantage point from which she could survey the street. It was quiet out there as well, as if the street, too,