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     I was only six at the time, but I remember 

it clear as day. My dad seemed…off. I 

remember watching him grabbing a suitcase 

and filling it up with papers and an ID badge. 

Next thing I know, there were tears running 

down his face and him grabbing me by my 

shoulders and saying “Wait for your mom to 

get home, honey. I’ll be back one of these 

days, I promise. I love you, Charlotte”, I could 

see the torment in his eyes. 

     By the time my mom came home, he was 

long gone. The police came and questioned 

me, but being the person my dad taught me 

to be, I didn’t trust authority, so I refused to 

speak. For some reason, I didn’t cry, but lord 

knows my mom did. I watched tears roll down 

her face every night. Don’t get me wrong I 

loved my dad deeply, but I guess I kind of 

hated him for putting my mom throught that 

pain. I left the whole disappearance thing 

alone.

    15 years later

     Sitting in my apartment and reading was 

one of the simple things that brought me joy. 

Just as I was ready to turn the page, my phone 

rang. It was my mom. “Charlotte, sweetie, can 

you come and help me clean the attic please?” 

     I agreed to it; helping my mom out was 

another little thing that made me happy. I 

drove to my mom's only to be greeted with

her waving at me on the porch. We both went 

inside the house and up the ladder to the attic, 

which, to be honest, creeped me out. After 

removing several boxes of old toys and clothes, 

sweeping, and trashing a dead bat, we were 

almost done. While my mom went to go throw 

everything out, I just sat down and took a 

break. Right then, I noticed a box in the corner 

that was unlabeled.

     “Mom! There’s a box we forgot!”

 As I was walking over to the box, I noticed it 

had a bunch of files. 

     “Oh, that. That was your father’s research 

box”.” my mom said in a low tone.

     “What kind of research” I asked.

     “I never asked, it didn’t really interest me.”

     “Father”. I haven’t heard that word in so 

long. 

     “Feel free to look through it, it doesn’t mean 

anything anyways”.

I scattered everything on the floor of the 

attic. Everything was kind of odd. There 

were pictures of strange machines, 

graphs, sketches, you name it, and it’s 

there. In memories, I remember sitting 

in his lap while he searched things up on 

his laptop. One of the files intrigued 

me, it had “exposer” written on the 

front, which, in French, meant expose. 

Inside was a paper written by my dad; 

it was all about the United States’ 

secrets. It was kind of a sickening 

sight, to be honest. There were several 

articles of paper about disease and 

images of sickly people practically 

rotting away.

It looks like my dad had circled some of the 

words in the paragraph such as “antidote”, 

“epidemic”, etc. Then in one of the pictures of a 

person with Ebola, it looks like he circled it in 

pen and to the side “Manmade” was written. I 

looked through everything else. There were 

things about aliens, assassinations, 

underground treasuries, nuclear weapons, and 

a machine called “HAARP” that apparently 

controlled the weather. The list of things could 

go on and on. I was disturbed, yet interested in 

all of

this. I asked my mom if I could take it 

home.

     “I don’t understand why you would 

want to, but go ahead, another piece of 

him out of this house”.

     That night I stayed up, and best 

believe, I read everything. Malcom 

Billings, my father, dedicated his entire 

life’s work to his conspiracies. The man 

was crazy about it. Soon I realized that 

it was getting late and I had work in 

the morning.

As I was working at the register, my 

mind boggled me. All of these things 

were running

through my head. The things that are kept from 

the citizens of America by the people who had 

sworn to protect us. My week long vacation 

was coming up soon, and I intended to use that 

time to my advantage.

     Going home that night, I finished reading 

and researching every one of those theories. I 

was getting weary and accidently knocked the 

box to the floor. As I was picking it back up, 

the bottom of the box was loosened, and it 

looked like there was a compartment, I opened 

it and there was a newspaper that 

headlined “America in the Shadows”. It 

was about my dad. “Conspiracy theorist 

Malcolm Billings confronts director of 

the CIA about hidden secrets of the 

United States. He was escorted out in 

chains and was warned never to come 

back or he will face the 

consequences.”

That hit me like a bullet to the head. 

My own father put his life in danger 

to prove he was right, how insane. For 

some reason that had a huge effect on 

me.All these years I have 

never really cared to find out why he left, but 

now, I have a lead.

     I couldn’t sleep; all that was going through 

my head was every bit of information in those 

files. I almost went crazy just thinking about it. 

     Eventually it got to me. I yearned to find out 

what happened to him, by all means. The only 

way to do that is by carrying on his work. It 

sounds nuts, but I have to do this for myself, for 

dad.

     I consider myself to be pretty 

intelligent, I am no stranger to hard 

work and research. I’m no criminal, 

but let’s just say I had a few 

“underground” ways of getting the 

information that I wanted. Websites, 

books, you name it, and I have a way 

to it.

      It was frustrating; after long 

hours of deep web searches, articles, 

papers, and everything else, nothing. 

The CIA is one of the most secure 

places in the world, and it wasn’t 

going to be easy finding out every 

single detail about their secret files. 

But, the most helpful thing I could find was a 

blueprint of the headquarters. Every defense, 

camera, security personnel was on that 

blueprint, god bless the hackers. Still nothing 

on the theories my dad had, only speeches 

from the president and the director of the CIA 

denying any involvement or truth about aliens, 

or the weather machine, etc.

Then at that very moment, an idea came to 

mind, but it was absolutely mental. This idea 

could be the end of my life, the end of Charlotte 

Billings.

I had to break into the CIA. The idea 

was going to get me sent to an 

asylum. It was the only way. My plan 

was simple, yet complicated. I live 

in the same city as the headquarters, 

so getting there wouldn’t be a 

problem. Remember the part where I 

said I said I considered myself pretty 

intelligent? That doesn’t even explain 

the extent of knowledge I have. Okay, 

here is where my mastermind comes 

in handy. I looked up photos online of 

CIA workers, and used a software to 

print out a badge.

     To my convenience, they were having a 

holiday party this Saturday, and I was intending 

to go. The blueprints showed a vent in the 

woman’s bathroom that led to a secluded room, 

unlabeled, and with the highest security. When I 

say high security, I mean it. The outside was 

guarded by soldiers, while the inside had thermal 

cameras and motion detectors. Luckily, I knew 

how to bypass the system and shut them off. I 

would then make my way into the room, hoping I 

would find answers. This plan was all depended 

on luck, which I needed the most of. 

     Even if I didn’t find my answers 

in there, it was somewhere to start 

finding clues.

I went dress shopping and I bought a 

slimming, long black dress. But I 

would be carrying a purse with the 

supplies I needed, which were very 

few. I cut compartments into my bag 

to hide rope, a knife, a plastic drill, 

to bypass the x-rays, and a flash drive 

I customized to decode any password, 

even the CIA’s. 

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