I stepped back from the granite counter in the bathroom to stare at my reflection in the mirror. It was so odd to see myself in formal attire—a long, navy-blue gown that hugged my body; white, satin gloves; and a pearl necklace to accessorize. I wore a double dose of make-up, one to make me look like I was in my thirties, the other to add some splashes of pink to my cheeks and eyelids. It felt like it took me an eternity to get ready for the dinner party that Mr. and Mrs. Bachaniello had invited the crew to, located in their hotel suite.

I glanced at the silver watch that I had been given to wear for special occasions. My usual one was too beat up and coarse for a refined outing. The dainty, black hands of the watch pointed to 7:55. I was right on schedule. I had given myself an entire half-hour to get ready, and I had needed every second of it.

I smoothed my dress one final time, then headed to the front of the hotel room. Dari was sitting criss-cross on her bed, hacking away at her computer.

"Dari, I'm heading out now," I announced.

Dari stared intently at her computer screen. "Uh-huh."

"I'll be back later on," I said.

"Kay." She sounded like a robot. To be honest, I wouldn't be surprised if she had turned into one, based on the company she kept.

"Your curfew is eight o'clock," I tried.

"Yup."

"Make that five p.m."

"Uh-huh."

"I'm the real Agent X."

"Kay."

I snickered. I suppose that nothing can disturb her concentration.

"Bye, have fun at the beauty pageant tonight."

Dari's head snapped up, eyes wide. "What?!"

I couldn't help myself. I burst into laughter. Dari just stared at me like a deer in headlights. I laughed so hard that I could barely breathe. My laughter quickly turned to coughing as my lungs gasped for air. Dari's face settled into a scowl.

"What?" she demanded.

"That's what gets your attention?" I wheezed.

"Wait what?"

"I've been talking to you this entire time."

Dari frowned. "Oh...really?"

"Um, yeah. I told you that your curfew was five o'clock and that I am the real Agent X."

Now Dari laughed. "Sorry, I just was super interested in some information that I found. I've been reading through some of the case files on our suspects, and apparently, Sofia Lopez, the ambassador of Mexico, was supposed to arrive yesterday, but was delayed."

Hmm, sounds like something she'd do. I tried doing what Dari had done a few minutes ago. "Uh-huh."

"You know, the file said that the imposter was supposed to arrive two days ago."

"Yes."

"So she's in the running," Dari finished, a triumphant grin on her face.

"Yes, she is. Good thing you checked on it. Did you discover anything more?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact I did. But it will have to wait until you get back from the dinner party."

"Okay, cool. See you later."

"Yeah, see ya."

I slipped into the three inch silver heels I was supposed to wear with the outfit. My ankles wobbled in the spindly excuses for shoes. How are women able to constantly wear these? To me, it was one of life's greatest mysteries.

I grabbed the matching, sparkly clutch from my bed and hurried out the door. I found Ty and Finn waiting outside my door. They looked like polar opposites. Ty was dressed in a formal, blue suit with a matching bow tie, while Finn wore jeans and a black t-shirt.

"Wow, you look nice," Finn said.

"Oh, thanks," I laughed. "I'm not used to these kinds of fancy clothes."

"That's probably a good thing," Ty said. "Xara wasn't too comfortable with them either." He elbowed Finn. "Told you that we were supposed to look nice."

Finn rolled his eyes. "Whatever. They probably don't care."

I checked the time once again. Five minutes had already elapsed. I was mildly irritated that Finn was so casual while I was in heels, but it was too late to make him change.

"Come on, we'll be late." I started down the hallway, and the others followed suit. "I assume Jax is in his usual position."

"Yep! He's watching the dining hall to make sure everyone is safe and guard against swaps."

"Good old Jax."

I lifted the hem of my dress as we approached the stairs. Ty strolled briskly past me and my unstable shoes.

"Hey, wait up!" I said.

"Slow and steady doesn't always win the race," Ty stated with a grin. Finn began to match Ty's pace and passed me.

"Not you too!" I whined.

"You gotta strengthen those ankle muscles," Finn joked.

"But I don't want to annihilate them in the process."

He simply shook his head and jogged with Ty the rest of the way to the second floor. Ugh. Boys. Always trying to be a showoff. Always trying to be a pain in the neck, especially when it involves physical inhibitors of one's performance that males are not subject to, aka heels. I picked up my dress to knee-length and forced myself to catch up to them. Every step squished my toes. I gritted my teeth against the pain. Ow! Ow! OW! It didn't help that the leather interior grated against the sides of my feet.

I landed on the final step, half expecting to hear a crack or feel a tear in my foot. I glanced down at my foot. Except for redness around the sides of my feet, I seemed to be okay—physically, not mentally. I stared down the hallway to see Ty and Finn standing in front of one of the hotel rooms. I glared at them, grabbed the hem of my skirt, and stormed towards them. This, once again, would have been significantly easier to do in heels. Every step forward felt like a tremendous effort on my part. Part of me just wanted to take off the shoes and walk barefoot. But that would have been disgusting, the best way to pick up a fungus. I would rather have blisters than who knows what on the bottom of my feet.

"I knew you could walk faster," Ty teased. I crossed my arms with the harshest glare I could muster.

"You will be sorry," I warned. I actually had little idea of what I could do for revenge, but if the opportunity were to come, I would probably take it.

I turned my attention to the door in front of us. It was room two-hundred forty. I knocked thrice on the door, then clasped my hands behind my back. Indistinct voices arose, along with rustling and shoes walking across the floor.

"Who's there?" A high-pitched voice called out.

"Xara Oclen, Finn Oclen, and Ty Hendol," I said.

"Oh! I'll be there in a moment."

The door cracked ajar. Mrs. Bachaniello poked her head out, sweeping her head from the left and right.

Is she watching for someone?

"It's so good of you to come, please enter," she invited, swinging the door wide for us.

We filed into a wide living room with a sitting area in the middle. Mrs. Bachaniello quickly shut the door behind us. That's so strange. Is she trying to keep someone out? Does this have anything to do with WAOIC?

Does this have anything to do with the imposter?

This solidified my suspicions. Something was wrong. They normally were more outgoing and less cautious. Now, they were reserved and seemed to melt with relief every time an agent entered the room. Is it reverse psychology? Are they thinking that if they seem excited by our presence, we won't suspect them?

I glanced around the hotel room. It had similar furniture to our room, a few side tables, chairs, and couches. Behind the sitting room was a neatly set table with a black table cloth. The silver plates and silverware on the table gleamed from the lights above. On the left side of the room, there was a kitchen area with a sink, stove, and fridge. And straight in front of us was a terrace, guarded by a set of french doors.

I was almost disappointed that everything seemed normal. I had wished that I could pick up on some sort of clue. If they're with WAOIC, they're not going to leave obvious clues right in the middle of the room.

"Please, be seated." Mrs. Bachaniello gestured to the table.

I walked to the side facing the terrace. If a visitor decided to sneak onto the balcony and attack us, I would be ready.

As I sat in my chair, I took a moment to marvel at Mrs. Bachaniello's work. She wasn't as big a talker as her husband, but she sure did know how to entertain people. Each place at the table had been set with a gleaming, ceramic appetizer plate. The silverware was placed in perfect proportion on either side. And a single, cream-colored napkin had been rolled up in the center of the plate, secured with what looked like a crystal broach. Does she take all of this fancy stuff with her wherever she goes? What if it got stolen?

A door closed on the other side of the room.

"Ah, you've arrived!"

I looked up to see Mr. Bachaniello approaching the table. He wore a crisp, black suit, very formal under the circumstances. My eyes gravitated to Finn in a t-shirt and jeans.

At least they are nice jeans, not old ones.

"Good evening, Mr. Bachaniello," Ty said in a very official manner.

"Hello, Ty, Finn, and Xara," he replied. He took his place at the head of the table. "We truly are grateful that the three of you could join us. I'm just sorry that Dari and Jax couldn't make it."

"Yeah," Ty agreed. "But alas, they had a previous engagement."

Aka, they needed to watch the hotel for trouble.

"Isn't that always how it is?" Mrs. Bachaniello commented from the kitchen. "Secret agents are always so occupied with their work." I opened my mouth to reply, but she walked around the side of the counter with a basket of breadsticks. "Here you are."

"Thank you, my dear," Mr. Bachaniello said. Mrs. Bachaniello smiled and sat down to his left, next to me.

"Smells delicious," Finn remarked. "Did you make them?"

Mrs. Bachaniello laughed. "Oh no. We ordered all of the food from an Italian restaurant in Brussels. They make delectable, authentic dishes."

"Yes, whenever we come to Brussels, we make sure that we eat there," Mr. Bachaniello added.

"What's it called?" I asked.

"A Taste of Italy," Mr. Bachaniello said.

"I can't wait to try it," Ty said. He had his eyes glued to the basket, like he was a seagull picking out which poor vacationer he was going to dive bomb.

"Go ahead and dig in," Mrs. Bachaniello said. Ty and Finn reached for the basket at the same time and snatched some breadsticks. Mr. and Mrs. Bachaniello smiled at each other.

"Don't worry, there's plenty of food to go around," Mr. Bachaniello chuckled. "We ordered extra, in fact."

"Oh good! I'm starved," Finn exclaimed.

Mrs. Bachaniello smiled, lifting her glass of water to her lips. She suddenly leapt from her chair. "Oh! Let me get the salad and main course."

She rushed away to the kitchen, heat rising to her face.

"Would you like me to help with anything?" I offered. I turned around to see Mrs. Bachaniello bustling around the kitchen.

"Oh, no dear. I-I can handle it."

I watched as she fumbled for a pair of tongs for the salad bowl. Despite her insistence, I rose from my seat and walked into the kitchen. Mrs. Bachaniello was balancing her salad bowl in her right arm. As she leaned forward to grab a plate piled high with spaghetti, I could see her arm tipping the salad forward.

"Here, let me help with that," I said. I took the salad bowl into my hands before she accidentally poured the contents on the floor.

"Oh, thank you!" Mrs. Bachaniello said.

I set the salad on the table. Mrs. Bachaniello followed with a huge dish full of spaghetti and meatballs. She returned to the kitchen for one last, rectangular dish of chicken piccata. Of course, Ty and Finn went for the pasta before the salad. Mr. and Mrs. Bachaniello exchanged an amused glance.

I calmly waited for them to take their helpings, opting for the salad first. I then waited for our hosts to get their share of the entrees before placing a portion of each on my plate. Xara always prioritized her health over taste.

The smell of the pasta wafted upwards to my nose. Gosh that smells good! I could feel my mouth watering and my stomach beginning to grumble. My eyes fell on the second half of my plate, which was covered in lettuce, tomato, olives, and bell pepper.

No Xara, self-control. First eat your salad, then you can enjoy the pasta and chicken. That's what the real Xara does.

Actually, that wasn't entirely true. The real Xara always started by eating half her salad, then moved onto the heavy food, then finished with the rest of her salad. It was a complex mealtime ritual that I had never understood, nor had I done. It's just that my salads were usually really bland and boring. Don't get me wrong, I don't have a vendetta against salads. In fact, I had grown to enjoy them. It's just...why would I want to dilute the flavor of a perfectly delicious piece of pizza or a plate of pasta with plain vegetables?

Unfortunately, I would probably have to perform Xara's normal, mealtime routine so as not to arouse the Bachaniello's suspicions. I stabbed my fork into some lettuce and a grape tomato and ate it. It was nothing special, reminiscent of the food I ate back home in order to ensure that I stayed in shape. The food on the other half of the plate stayed in my peripheral vision. Eye on the prize, Xara. Keep your eye on the prize.

I wolfed down half of the salad, then finally dug into the spaghetti. It was the best pasta I had ever eaten, nothing like the dry pasta that is made in America. I could taste the homemade noodles, the fresh tomato sauce that didn't taste like it had been sitting in a jar for a year. And the meatballs were so soft that they fell apart the instant I sliced them with my fork. I cut the chicken picatta and tasted it to see if it was as good as the pasta.

As I suspected, it was equally delicious. The chicken was so tender that it practically fell apart. The sauce was the perfect balance of sweet and acid. I had always wanted to taste chicken piccata. I had once seen a chef make it on TV. It was almost like a dream come true to finally taste it.

"How is the food?" Mr. Bachaniello inquired.

"Awesome," Finn said.

"Superb," Ty said. "I shall have to remember to eat at A Taste of Italy every time I return to Brussels."

"Or better yet, you can come to Italy and get more than just a taste of Italy," Mr. Bachaniello said.

"That would be amazing," Ty said. "I've been there numerous times, and everytime it wows me."

"Yes, I believe we showed you the restaurant Quattro Stagioni."

"My was that delicious!" Ty exclaimed. "In all the thirty-five years that I have been alive, I have never eaten such good Italian food."

"It is our favorite spot to eat," Mr. Bachaniello said.

"Oh! And the chocolate place Zucchero?" Ty placed his hand over his heart. "I can honestly say that nothing compares with the tiramisu we got there."

"Oh, that tiramisu!" Finn chimed in. "That...I have no words for it. That was like a million times better than incredible."

As I listened to their conversation, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of sadness. Each restaurant name summoned Xara's memories—replaying conversations and comments about how good the food was. I knew what it tasted like, I could replay Xara's memories of her first bites, her taste buds exploding with flavor. But I hadn't tasted it for myself. I had never experienced it for myself.

My memories were not my own.

"Xara, wasn't it so good?" Ty said.

I forced a smile. "Yeah, it was some of the best food I've ever eaten."

My answer seemed to satisfy Mr. and Mrs. Bachaniello, and they continued to speak with Finn. But Ty's eyes met mine. I felt my face growing hot, water collecting in the corners of my eyelids. A lump started to form in my throat, but I ignored it and began shoveling the rest of my salad into my face. For some reason, the routine of eating the salad seemed to calm me down.

Ty gave me a comforting smile. He rested his jaw in his hand to block his face from the others and mouthed, are you okay? I nodded slightly. He didn't seem convinced, but he turned his extroverted personality back on and rejoined the conversation.

Breath, Xara. Breath. I reached for my water, hoping to push down the lump in my throat. Good thing I don't have to talk much.

Xara, it's okay. You're forming your own ties, friendships, and experiences now. You may never go back into the world, you may stay cooped up in the IIA for the rest of your life, but it's okay. You will have these memories of spy work to accompany you, forever and always.

I shoveled the last fork-full of spaghetti into my mouth to comfort myself. And it worked. Come on! It was just so, so good! It just had this way of making a person forget all of their problems.

Slowly, I felt myself regaining my composure. I felt myself hardening like stone. I am strong. I am tough. I am Agent X.

"Those were the days," Mr. Bachaniello said. He set his fork down on a cleaned plate and leaned back in his chair.

"There's nothing like a nice, homey dinner when you are traveling," Finn said.

"I second that," Ty said.

"I third it," Mr. Bachaniello agreed.

"Shall we move to the couches?" Mrs. Bachaniello suggested. She had been quiet for most of the dinner, as usual.

"Yes, since we are done with the dinner," Mr. Bachaniello said. "We can always have dessert there." He turned to the rest of us. "Are you wanting dessert now?"

"Maybe give us twenty minutes to digest our food," Finn grinned. "I appreciate food more when I have a semi-empty stomach."

"Not an empty stomach?" Mr. Bachaniello raised an eyebrow.

"I try not to let it go to empty," Finn joked.

"I'll pack up the rest of the dinner food for you to take with you. I'm sure Dari and Jax would love to have some," Mrs. Bachaniello said. I opened my mouth to protest, but she cut me off. "Now I won't hear another word about it. It is our gift to you."

I smiled. "Thank you. I'll at least help you pack everything up." I really didn't want her going to all the trouble by herself. It probably was unbelievably difficult to entertain guests as the wife of a diplomat. I couldn't even imagine all of the difficult people that she had to deal with on a regular basis.

"Oh, are you sure?" Mrs. Bachaniello said.

"Yes, I would love to." I could still overhear Mr. Bachaniello's conversation from the kitchen if I needed to.

"Oh, well, thank you!" She sounded positively exhausted. I began to wonder if she was just tired from all her duties as a diplomat's wife or if there was something else going on.

The men left the table to chat in the sitting room. I gathered all of the plates into my hands and carried them to the kitchen.

"So where did you get the dish sets?" I asked.

"They were provided by the Italian embassy," Mrs. Bachaniello said. "They always make sure that their diplomats have kitchens in their hotel rooms and solid kitchen utensils. It makes our stays so much more pleasurable. I don't think I could eat out of styrofoam and plastic."

I nodded and placed the dishes by the sink. "Is there anything more you would like me to do?"

"No, that's all. Thank you so much for your help!"

"It was my pleasure." I walked a few paces into the living room.

"Please sit down, Xara," Mr. Bachaniello said. He motioned to the seat on the edge of the couch, next to Finn. Mrs. Bachaniello joined her husband on the sofa across from us.

"Thank you," I said. I sat down on the edge of the sofa, maintaining perfect posture like I had been taught.

Mrs. Bachaniello smiled. "I always admire the way you carry yourself. Always so eloquent."

"Thank you," I said.

"Yeah, she's one of a kind," Finn said with a wink. Mr. and Mrs. Bachaniello nodded like it was a totally normal thing to say, but I nearly burst into laughter. It was sarcasm at it's finest. I was not one of a kind—I was a clone.

Ty cleared his throat. He was probably trying to keep a straight face too.

I broke the silence before it got awkward. "So, how is your presentation going?"

"It's going well," Mr. Bachaniello said. "I have all of the slides down, and now I just have to practice the speech. This past day at the hotel has been extremely helpful."

Another incongruity. Within twenty-four hours, Mr Bachaniello went from being reserved and nervous about his presentation to feeling confident. Perhaps his situation had dramatically changed. Or perhaps, he had realized his mistake from the dinner party, and had decided to modify his reaction to the question today.

Whatever the cause of the inconsistency, something was definitely not right. And now, I had to figure out what was going on.

"Have you timed your speech yet?" I asked.

"No, not yet. I plan to do that tomorrow."

The real Mr. Bachaniello always, always timed himself before arriving at the location of a conference.

Another issue arose in my mind. Mr. and Mrs. Bachaniello had arrived in Belgium a week in advance. Normally, they never arrived more than three days in advance. They were always early, but never super early.

I was ready to pounce. They had to be the imposters. My eyes narrowed ever so slightly as I examined them. Mr. Bachaniello sat up straight, but he wasn't tense. He wore a resting, friendly smile.

On the other hand, Mrs. Bachaniello was slightly hunched over, resting her chin in her palm as she leaned on the shoulder rest of the couch. Her eyes darted to and fro, and if we hadn't been present, I suspected that she would have bitten her nails.

The epitome of a person with something on her conscience.

There was only one part of the story that didn't add up. Why on Earth had WAOIC been so unbelievably careless? There were obvious inconsistencies within their story. They had to have known that Mr. and Mrs. Bachaniello wouldn't arrive so early!

Finally, Mrs. Bachaniello turned to her husband. Her eyes were pleading, and she nudged her head in our direction, as if to say, "Tell them Antonio."

Mr. Bachaniello grunted and shifted his position. "Are you, um, busy these days?"

Ty wrinkled his brow. "Oh, um, guys?" He leaned forward to look at Finn and me.

You handle it, he seemed to say.

I will, I thought in response.

"Not overly so," I replied. "What's on your mind?"

Mr. Bachaniello exhaled slowly. "Well, you see, we..."

"We didn't want to bother you," Mrs. Bachaniello burst out. She froze, regaining her subdued composure. "But...seeing as you are not very busy..."

"You don't have to take the case, by the way," Mr. Bachaniello interrupted. "We can manage. We just thought that maybe..."

"Maybe if we made you...aware it would help the situation. Er, our situation," Mrs. Bachaniello finished.

I glanced at my companions. We all were quite confused.

"And what is the case?" Ty asked slowly.

"Oh!" Mr. and Mrs. Bachaniello said in unison. They paused, looking at each other.

"You go ahead," Mrs. Bachaniello said, dipping her head.

"Okay," he said. "You see, a few weeks ago, I started to receive threats from a man who called himself 'Nameless.' He sent me several, handwritten letters, stating that if I presented the findings that my country had discovered, he would come after me."

"Show them the letters, Antonio," Mrs. Bacaniello said.

Mr. Bachaniello walked mechanically to the opposite side of the room and disappeared into their bedroom. I kept my eyes fixed on the door, my hand resting on the front of my purse just in case I needed to pull my gun out in a flash.

He returned with a brown box, which he set on the coffee table in front of us. I leaned over to peer at the notes still encased in envelopes. I was glad that my outfit included gloves. I could inspect the notes without disturbing the existing fingerprints.

"May I?" I asked.

"Of course."

I reached out, my fingers brushing the edge of the first envelope. I lifted it out gently, like it was a bubble that I didn't want to burst.

I first checked the mailing date on the front. It was posted on June seventh. My eyes moved to the center of the page. Mr. Antonio Bachaniello's name was written in all uppercase letters. Below, his home address was written in flowing, cursive letters. There was no return address. I found it interesting that it had been sent to his home. It made the note more personal, more menacing.

I flipped the envelope around and slid the letter out. It had been meticulously folded into four segments, even though the envelope was oversized, and it probably only needed to be folded in half. The handwriting was barely legible, a sharp contrast to the fluid lettering on the front. Each letter seemed to be a strange cross between cursive and chicken scratch.

Is this even meant to be read?

No, I quickly realized. This is meant to be read. But chicken scratch is more intimidating. The thought of the words 'chicken scratch' being intimidating almost made me laugh, even though this was no joking matter.

"We hope to see you again soon. Have a great night!" Mr. Bachaniello said. Ty, Finn, and I were standing in the hallway of the hotel and were bidding the Bachaniellos a good night.

"You too!" Ty said. Mr. and Mrs. Bachaniello waved before gently clicking the door shut.

I started down the hallway, determined to not be left behind this time. I could feel myself growing tired, my legs wobbling in the already unstable shoes.

"You look a little tipsy in those heels," Ty joked as he ran along beside me. "You know drinking on the job is against IIA rules."

I glared at him and shoved my wristwatch in his face. "It's ten-thirty at night. I am tired."

"So, the million dollar question," Finn began, coming along my other side. "Do you think that they are telling the truth?"

The wheels in my brain started to turn round as I considered their story. "Yes, actually. I do."

Ty snorted. "Why?"

"Why do you doubt it?" I countered.

"It just seems very suspicious," Ty defended.

I rolled my eyes. "That's not good enough."

"Well makes you think their story is true?"

"First of all, I think WAOIC sent those letters to create a natural decoy for themselves. Getting death threats makes people act in strange ways. They know we are watching the behavior of the delegates and will pick up on anything strange. Second, I think they wanted to create a second case for us to solve, if the diplomats told us about their plight. They wanted to divert our attention from the real imposter."

"But what if the letters are real?" Ty asked.

"Oh, come on! Hand-written letters? That can be so easily traced! I'm just not buying it. We can still keep our eyes open for anything suspicious. But we can not get distracted from the mission ahead of us. It is of international security."