Deleted Scenes..AGAIN

Hey gang,

Found another one. Initially, this scene replaced the scene where Cammie searches Rachel's office and finds the picture. But then my editor wisely suggested that the picture of Mr. Solomon and Cammie's dad come to Cammie as a result of their investigation--that they EARN it, and of course she was right.

Still, I thought you guys might like this (since, so far, the scraps seem to be something of a hit.)

oh, and by the way, there are LYKY deleted scenes on the blog from about a year ago. Just go up to the little search box up above and search for them. They're there.

later gators,
Ally

As we made yet another turn I realized we weren’t walking anywhere in particular. We were just…walking.

It’s a basic rule of CoveOps to be a moving target, so that night I walked with Joe Solomon through dim corridors and down deserted halls until we found ourselves at the far end of the second story of the mansion. Stone steps spiraled from the first floor, past a massive stained glass window that had once been heart of the Gallagher Academy Chapel, and as Mr. Solomon sat on the fourth step from the bottom I wondered if he’d come there for confession.

“So,” he started, sounding uneasy, as if the words were foreign to him. “I was home over the break,” he said and I thought Joe Solomon has a home? I never really thought about our teachers outside of work and the fact that a man like Mr. Solomon might live somewhere seemed amazing to me. Mr. Solomon is someone’s neighbor. Mr. Solomon has a mortgage.

“And I was cleaning out my basement.”

Mr. Solomon has a basement?

“And I found these,” he said, as he reached into his pocket for a manila envelope. “I could have brought them to class…” he placed the envelope in my hand “…but I didn’t think…” he trailed off, and for the second time in seven minutes Joe Solomon didn’t have the strength or courage to say what came next.

The weight was uneven, like a puzzle that’s been broken apart and a part of me wanted to shake it. If Liz had been there she probably would have rushed it immediately to the lab for analysis, but all I could do was stare at it, wondering what was so important Joe Solomon had pulled it from the basement and given it to me.

“They’re pictures,” he said.

“Oh,” I muttered. “Thanks.”

“Of your dad.”

I felt the cold stone seep through my jeans as I sank to the bottom step without realizing I was no longer on my feet. The envelope lay in my hands like an offering in that holy place, and even though Mr. Solomon’s knee pressed against my shoulder, even though his breathing was the only sound in that vast, deserted hallway I forgot I wasn’t alone.

“I thought you should have them,” Mr. Solomon said. “He’d want you to have them.”

Of course I already had pictures of my father, hundreds of them--the kind you keep pasted in books and the kind you keep frozen in your mind. Even without spy training I would still remember his face, his smell, the way his hands fit around my waist as I stood on his toes and danced on the kitchen floor. But sitting there that night with Joe Solomon I knew there was a side of my father I had never seen, I remembered that the man inside that envelope was in most ways a stranger.

I felt Mr. Solomon stand slowly and take a step away from me, up the stairs.

***

As I sat on the cold stone steps, watching the moonlight fallthrough the big stained-glass windows my internal clock must have switched off, because when I finally made it back upstairs and opened the door to our suite, Liz met me at the door, shouting, “Do you know what time it is?” and for the first time in years I didn’t know the answer.

“So?” Bex said, rushing forward. “What did Solomon want?”

Even Macey dropped her books to look at me as I walked toward my bed. Down the hall, the common room was quiet.

“Cammie,” Liz said, her voice dripping with fear and excitement and smelling like Aquafresh. “What happened?”

I placed the envelope on my bed. “He had some old pictures of my dad he wanted me to have,” I said as I started changing into my pajamas walking toward the bathroom.

“Ooh, let me see—" Liz said, grabbing the envelope before I could stop her.

“No, I—"

But it was too late, the envelope was already open and pictures were falling to my bed.

“Ooh,” Macey said. “Hottie.”

“Yeah,” I said, “Mr. Solomon is very—"

“Not Mr. Solomon, silly,” Macey said. “Your dad.” She eyed the picture in her hands. “He’s got that whole strong, silent type thing going on.”

“How can you tell?” Liz wanted to know because…well…Liz never passes up an opportunity to learn something.