“Come on Jessica you have to tell a story. We all have to.” A redheaded girl with freckles said in a bossy tone.
The girls were telling stories. The typical slumber party fare: scary, something personal, or what they caught their siblings doing.
Jessica was introspective and shy; sometimes people forgot she was around and that is how she managed to get pieces of the story she was about to tell now.
“There is this man who is in love with my mother; tall, dark, handsome, smooth British accent – you know the type. But there has always been something about him that I wondered about. Like who is he really? What is the secret he holds back? You have to promise not to tell anyone what I am going to tell you. I am trying to put together information about him and I don’t want him to get wind of what I am doing.” A hush filled the room as the girls sat up in their sleeping bags. One light, from a flashlight, shone on the story teller’s face.
“He’s got a story to tell, but I think he must hide it for fear of being discovered. You see he was in the war. He was a pilot who carried secret information. He may have been part of the CIA or whatever they call it in England. He has a scar on his face probably from a knife ; his hands shake at times when he sees my mom handle the large carving knife. Once he told me he was about to be captured when the resistance saved him – he was that close to taking a cyanide pill. You know those are the kind that kill you instantly.” A gasp, from one of the girls, was heard in the dark.
“He has a locked glass cabinet of medals, knives, and hand guns. He must have been a hero to have all those medals. But he says he doesn’t like to talk about it much. I overheard his boss at a cocktail party tell one of the guests that he had built something top-secret to spy on other countries via satellite. His boss says they have to keep his whereabouts in the plant a secret so people don’t find him. My brother told me this cool story about when they went driving in the mountains at night. He has a black Jaguar; it’s fast. He turned off the headlights while he was driving the mountain roads. Who knows how to drive like that?”
“And get this he has a daughter in London but he never talks to her. He says, “it wouldn’t be safe.”
One night, when he was asleep, I heard him talking in his sleep. He said, “gotta get away, make my escape soon before they drug me again.”
The girls started talking all at once:
“Maybe he was in an enemy camp and they were trying to make him talk.”
” He sounds like a James Bond guy who knows all this cool stuff and has to kill people.”
“Maybe he’s like a Jason Bourne and he has all these identities.”
Well my mom is worried because he hasn’t contacted her for days and he hasn’t shown up to work. That isn’t like him. They talk ever day and he is usually at my house.
The girls had plenty of ideas about what had happened:
“They found out who he really was.”
” He had a secret cover and someone turned him in.”
“He has lots of enemies if he is a spy.”
” Someone broke in his house and kidnapped him.”
A hush filled the room.
Late that night young girls were discussing who this man really was. They pondered different scenarios to his disappearance around one, low on batteries, flashlight.
Several days later, Jessica’s mystery was solved. Her mother got a phone call from her employer. The man known as “Brandon” had been in hiding for several years in the United States. He was returned by officials to a British mental institution.
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Thanks to Taberandrew for the 007 photo