Life is classified. There is always so much that goes unsaid.

If you don't mind me saying, Mr. Hale. She's a keeper." He pointed in Kat's direction.

You know,' I whispered, 'some girls might think it's creepy having a boy watch them sleep.' He smirked and pointed to himself. 'Spy.' 'Oh.' I nodded. 'Right. So you're a trained Peeping Tom.' 'Product of the best peeping academies in the country.' 'Well, now I feel much better.' 'You should.

It's good to see you, little one." He (Uncle Eddie) scanned her short skirt. "I only wish I were not seeing quite so much of you.

Turn," Liz said, trying not to hide her impatience at being forced to read at non-speed-of-light pace.

I love being a pavement artist; seriously, I do. It's like when guys who would normally hate being freakishly tall discover basketball, or when girls with abnormally long fingers sit down at a piano. Blending in, going unseen, being a shadow in the sun is what I'm good at. Seeing the shadows, it turns out, is not my natural gift.

"We're going to be okay." Here's the thing about being a spy: sometimes all you have are your lies. They protect your cover and keep your secrets, and right then I needed to believe that it was true even when all the facts said otherwise.