The Dying Breath by Alane Ferguson

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, were holding its breath. The trees, stripped of leaves, were still, and the branches cut sharp shadows against the snow. Few cars drove by. Once she saw her neighbor’s face framed in an upstairs window before she vanished, snapping the curtains shut.
    All day long Cameryn had been on full alert, edgy, and yet . . . nothing had happened. The chat room remained silent, even when she’d tried to contact Kyle exactly the way Andrew told her to. She placed her foot on the rung of her chair and watched her