Exposure

by Kathy Reichs

  We entered the classroom and took our seats. I was digging in my bookbag when a hand touched my shoulder, causing me to jump.

  “Oh!” Giggles. “Maybe less caffeine tomorrow, Brennan?”

  My heart rate slowed as I identified the offender.

  “Sorry, Ella. I just survived another Tripod drive-by. I’m still a little spooked.”

  “Bleh.” Ella Francis slid into the chair beside mine. “I have Purell if you need it.”

  Ella was a recent addition to my playlist. We’d met by chance. After catching Shelton and I chatting during one of his lectures, Mr. Terenzoni had switched his seat with hers. The “punishment” had resulted in my making a wonderful new friend.

  Ella was beautiful in a textbook, Gap-model way, with gray-green eyes, pale skin, and a thick braid of sheeny black hair that fell to her waist. What surprised me most was her biting sense of humor. Ella was mercilessly sarcastic. I couldn’t get enough of her.

  “When can you come back to practice?” Ella asked. “The defense is suffering.”

  “Hopefully soon,” I said. “This trial has to end sometime, right?”

  Ella patted my hand. “I heard you did great. That bastard is going to rot in jail.”

  “Thanks.” Slumping down in my seat. “I just want the whole thing finished.”

  I’d learned quickly that Ella could be persuasive. So much so, in fact, that she’d accomplished the impossible—after weeks of prodding, I’d actually tried out for the soccer team.

  I still don’t quite know how it happened, but yours truly was now the Bolton Prep Lady Griffins’ newest fullback.

  Ella was our midfield maestro. She could run all day, attack and defend, and generally own the ball for ninety solid minutes. Last season she’d been selected first team all-conference. Everything we did ran through her nimble feet.

  Me? I barely understood the rules.

  That said—and loudly tooting my own horn—I’m pretty damn good. I’ve always been well coordinated, and in decent shape. From the first scrimmage the game came fairly easily to me. Most parts, anyway.

  I tend to stay in the back—the intricacies of both midfield and forward still elude me, and I prefer facing the other team’s goal at all times. Nonetheless, Coach Lynch told me privately that I’ve got the skill set to become a striker. Not too shabby for a novice.

  Of course, that was before the trial began.

  I hadn’t made a single practice in two weeks.

  A thump sounded behind me.

  Ella and I turned to see Shelton, red-faced, scooping books off the floor. “Sorry. They must’ve waxed these desktops.”

  “Look,” Ella whispered as she pointed to the back row. “The Gable twins are out again. How many days is that?”

  “I haven’t seen Lucy or Peter all week,” I said. “That’s not like them.”

  The Gables were both honor students, and math freaks to boot.

  “Vacation?” I guessed.

  “In April?” Ella shrugged. “Nice timing.”

  The third bell rang. We spun to face the front, where Mr. Terenzoni was already scribbling on his dry-erase board. A prickly man, he liked to publicly embarrass anyone who wasn’t paying attention. I locked in on his lesson.

  Ten minutes later, the classroom door swung open. Mr. Terenzoni’s head whipped toward the disturbance, his mouth opening to complain. Spotting the visitor, he snapped it shut.

  Headmaster Declan Paugh entered, leaving the door ajar behind him. Fit and trim for a man nearing sixty, he had a tuft of thick white hair encircling an otherwise bald dome. Paugh wore a natty tweed jacket, white shirt, and tan slacks. A purple bow tie completed the ensemble.

  Known as a strict disciplinarian, the headmaster was obsessed with upholding the lofty standards of Bolton Prep. He’d been a quiet opponent of allowing LIRI to provide scholarships for Morris Island kids, but he’d never mistreated us once the decision was made.

  Nonetheless, I’d spent my entire career at Bolton carefully avoiding his attention.

  Paugh scanned the room with watery gray-blue eyes. Settled on me.

  Perfect.

  “Miss Victoria Brennan, please come with me.” His nasally tenor oozed pretentiousness. “You as well, Misters Stolowitski and Devers. Quick now.”

  My heart sank.

  Two things I knew for certain.

  One: Headmaster Paugh hated the publicity of the Gamemaster’s trial.

  Two: The man was known to hold a grudge.

  Stomach knotted, I gathered my things, threw a last mournful glance at Ella, and headed for the door.

  “I don’t mind telling you, this is a decided inconvenience.”

  Headmaster Paugh drilled me with his bird-like glare, then swung it to pierce Hi and Shelton. We stood in the hall, just outside the classroom. I had no idea what we were doing there.

  Paugh continued before any of us could respond.

  “The district attorney has requested your presence at her office.” He folded skinny arms across his chest. “She had the temerity to insist I interrupt your lesson immediately.”

  “Did she say why she wants us?” I asked, as politely as possible.

  “No. And I inquired.”

  Ouch. No wonder he was peeved.

  “Must be the trial.” Hi. Stating the obvious. “Things got real in there, yesterday.”

  The headmaster’s eyes came to rest on Hiram’s reversed uniform jacket. Narrowed.

  Shelton edged sideways, straining for invisibility.

  “You three might think you’re some sort of heroes,” Paugh said abruptly. “And I suppose you must do your civic duty, as required by law. But know this—this whole business is beneath the dignity of Bolton Preparatory Academy. It’s unseemly.”

  I kept my mouth shut. The boys did likewise. Safest course.

  “One bad seed has already been removed from our rolls.” The headmaster paused for effect. “There is no guarantee he’ll be the last. I will not tolerate children carrying on like tabloid celebrities.”

  My temperature rose. It’s not like we’d asked to be sucked into a lunatic’s web. We hated the attention more than anyone.

  But I kept my anger in check. Sometimes, the deck is stacked against you.

  No one spoke.

  The awkward moment stretched as I examined my shoelaces.

  “Go.” Paugh jabbed a thumb at the front entrance. “I expect you back by lunchtime. If not, I’ll be forced to consider this a full-day absence.”

  He turned and strode down the corridor, heels clicking every step of the way.

  “What a douche,” Hi whispered. “I bet that bow tie is a clip-on.”

  “Shush!” Shelton pushed him toward the door. “That fossil hears like a bat.”

  We hurried outside and through the gates, turning left on Broad Street. The city’s main court complex was just a few blocks east across the peninsula.

  “Whaddya think Harris wants?” Shelton was already tugging an ear. “I thought the prosecution rested after your testimony.”

  “It did.” My shoulders rose and fell. “I don’t have a clue. I hope to God it’s not a mistrial.”

  We walked along one of the city’s oldest thoroughfares. Antebellum mansions alternated with historic churches and tree-lined parks. Spring had come early, and window flower boxes overflowed with jessamine, lilacs, and other Lowcountry blooms. Dogwoods and azaleas mingled with towering magnolias and weeping willows, giving the neighborhood a sleepy, placid feel. Few cities could rival Charleston’s aesthetic beauty.

  To our right was the exclusive district known as South of Broad. The most expensive quarter of the city, it stank of privilege, tradition, and old money. Brazen wealth. Prestige.

  Ella’s family lived there. Chance, too, of course.

  That morning I was
in no mood to gawk. The DA’s unexpected summons had me rattled. What could Harris want? What more was expected of me?

  For the first time, I acknowledged how frightening the previous day had been.

  I didn’t want a repeat showing. I’d had enough.

  We turned left at Meeting Street. As we paused for the traffic light, I glanced in the opposite direction, looking south toward The Battery and White Point Gardens at the end of the peninsula.

  Claybourne Manor was a mere three blocks away.

  Even in that swanky zip code, Chance’s ancestral home stood out.

  I wonder what he’s doing in that giant house. Right now.

  “Yo, Tor?” Shelton had paused in the crosswalk. “You coming or what?”

  “Quit daydreaming, Brennan.” Hi nudged me into the street. “Chance is probably out fox hunting. Or fencing. Something rich and super lame.”

  “I was not daydreaming.” I fired ahead before either could say more.

  Okay, fine.

  I’d had a thing for Charleston’s biggest catch. Once.

  But it wasn’t my fault—Chance was more than just good-looking, he was absurdly hot. Smart. Funny. Charming. Every Bolton girl had crushed on him at some point.

  But that was before Chance lied to me. Before he manipulated me. Before he used my feelings as a tool to get what he wanted.

  I’d recovered from my infatuation. Had learned a valuable lesson about naïveté.

  My eyes were wide-open now.

  The DA’s office was housed in a dour brick building beside the courthouse. We climbed to the third floor, then followed a long corridor to Harris’s corner office, which overlooked Meeting Street.

  The door was wedged. As we approached, voices spilled out into the corridor.

  Inside were Harris, her legal assistant, three members of the Charleston Police Department, and a few other men I didn’t recognize. All told, perhaps a dozen people were crammed into the narrow office.

  Several animated conversations were taking place at once. No one noticed our arrival.

  I knocked on the doorframe. “Hello?”

  “Tory!” Harris swept over, face flushed, blue eyes twinkling. She wore a smart gray suit and square-toe pumps. “Have you heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  The DA herded us inside. “About the plea deal. It’s over!”

  My brow furrowed. “What’s over?”

  “The trial,” said a familiar voice.

  I turned. Ben was sitting in a chair against the wall.

  “How can the trial be over?” Hi asked Harris, while extending a quick fist bump to Ben. “The defense hasn’t presented its case. Not that they have one.”

  “Defense counsel called this morning.” A satisfied smile spread across Harris’s face. “Mr. Parrish was despondent, said his client was finally ready to plead guilty. Like they had much choice, after that outburst. Lazarus Parrish may be a horse’s ass, but he isn’t stupid.”

  “You gave the Gamemaster a deal?” I was incredulous. The man was a monster.

  “Not much of one,” Harris said smugly. “Life sentence, no parole. My only offer. They took it quickly, too. I guess they’re convinced the jury was heading toward the single punishment worse.”

  Thinking it over, I nodded slowly. “And our case wasn’t airtight.”

  “No, it was not.” Crossing her arms, Harris leaned a shoulder against the bookshelf lining her office wall. “It’s a very good result, Tory. That bastard is going to prison, and never getting out. And don’t forget, there are charges pending in a half-a-dozen other jurisdictions.”

  “It’s a great result,” a voice boomed.

  Three overweight men joined our circle. Exchanging glances, Hi and Shelton retreated to a pair of open chairs beside Ben, leaving me alone. There the boys huddled together, whispering.

  I stayed put. Didn’t want to talk to Ben.

  Harris stood a little straighter, adopting her courtroom voice. “Miss Brennan, this is Deputy Mayor Richard Skeen, Police Commissioner Antony Riggins, and Detective Fergus Hawfield of the Major Crimes Division. Gentlemen, meet my star witness.”

  “So you’re the little lady who made that felon go berserk.” Skeen was a pear-shaped man with a pug nose and close-set eyes. “Never seen anything like it. Lordy day!”

  “Thanks.” I had nothing else. Little lady?

  Commissioner Riggins was a wide-framed bear of a man, with wire-rimmed glasses that sank deep into his sallow, puffy features. He extended a meaty paw, which I reluctantly shook.

  Sweaty palms. Blech.

  “You did well on cross-examination,” Riggins said. “I’ve known career police who’ve faired much worse.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” said Detective Hawfield.

  Hawfield was also condo-sized, with the thick neck of an ox. Red-faced, sporting a bristly salt-and-pepper mustache, he looked more construction foreman than police investigator.

  “You did good, kid.” Unlike the other two, Hawfield didn’t sound condescending. “Kept your head, even bested that rat lawyer a few times. The city owes you one.”

  My pride swelled just a little. “I only did as Ms. Harris instructed. She prepared me well.”

  Harris puffed beside me. Gave me a grateful nod.

  Whatever. I wanted out of the spotlight.

  “Well, I, for one, am glad this circus is over,” Commissioner Riggins said. “Now we can get back to regular, boring police work. Won’t that be nice?”

  Detective Hawfield snorted. “Like chasing down matching teenagers?”

  Riggins shot Hawfield a sharp look. The detective blanched. Harris glanced at me, then quickly away.

  Something clicked. Matching teenagers?

  “Do you mean the Gable twins?” I asked. “Lucy and Peter?”

  Hawfield winced. The adults’ eyes found one another’s, before settling on me.

  “Well . . . er . . . yes.” Riggins glared at Hawfield. “Lucy and Peter Gable are technically missing persons at this point. But that’s not something the public has been made aware of yet.”

  Hawfield was frowning at his shoes.

  “Missing?” My mind leaped to the empty desks in calculus. “For how long? I know they haven’t been in class for a couple of days.”

  “There’s no need to get worked up.” Hawfield raised both palms. “Most likely, those two just ran off for a little mischief. But the family has made it a police matter, so we’re looking into it.”

  “Run off?” I glanced at the boys. Their faces were as dubious as mine.

  The Gable twins were honor students. Both played violin in Bolton’s student orchestra. Peter was president of Key Club, and Lucy had founded an organization for students learning Mandarin Chinese.

  Not the type of kids to jet out for few days without telling anyone.

  “Is there suspicion of foul play?” I watched Hawfield carefully.

  “Not at all,” the detective answered firmly. “This is purely a worried-parent situation. I’m sure we’ll have them found in no time.”

  Skeen grunted. “Except for that card, of course.”

  Both police officers frowned at Skeen. Harris squeezed the bridge of her nose.

  The deputy mayor didn’t seem to notice, dabbing a handkerchief to his sweaty forehead. “You have to admit, that was a peculiar thing to find on the girl’s pillow.” Skeen stretched the word to four syllables.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “There was something on Lucy’s bed?”

  “It’s nothing.” Riggins made a chopping gesture with one hand. “We found a playing card of some sort in Lucy Gable’s room. Antique, with a picture painted on its face. Her parents didn’t recognize it, so we’re checking it out.”

  “That information isn’t to be shared with anyone.” Hawfield caught S
keen’s eye, who shrugged. “Miss Brennan, I’ll need you to keep this conversation confidential.”

  “Of course.” I couldn’t resist. “May I see the card?”

  “No.” Hawfield and Riggins spoke at once.

  “Until the twins turn up, we’re treating the object as evidence,” Hawfield said. “We have to follow protocol.”

  Shelton abruptly butted in beside me. “Makes perfect sense.” He spoke in an overloud voice, a sheen of sweat suddenly glistening his forehead. “But here’s the thing. Let me ask you guys a question.”

  Shelton paused. Coughed into his fist. Held up a finger.

  The four adults waited expectantly.

  “Do ya’ll think that, like, uh, maybe . . .” Shelton extended his arms awkwardly. “Like, maybe the school should . . .”

  He trailed off. Forcibly cleared his throat a second time.

  I stared. What in the world was he talking about?

  Confused, I glanced over at Ben and Hi.

  Ben hadn’t moved, was sitting stone still in his chair.

  Hiram, however, had crossed the room and was gazing out a window.

  Harris, looking confused, opened her mouth to reply to Shelton.

  “Check their lockers!” Shelton blurted, hands fluttered up wildly. “Shouldn’t the police investigate those?”

  Then he sighed. Shoulders slumping, Shelton wiped his brow, muttering under his breath. I don’t think he even heard the response.

  “In due time, and if necessary,” Hawfield said. “But right now, we’re not too worried. Nor should you be.”

  But something in his eyes betrayed him.

  The detective, at least, suspected something more sinister.

  “Don’t fret over this.” Commissioner Riggins flashed what I’m sure was supposed to be a reassuring smile. “And please, don’t share this information with any of your classmates.”

  “Okay.” Me and Shelton. Jinx.

  Riggins turned to Ben and Hi, who’d slipped back into his chair. Both nodded.

  “That’s settled, then.” Riggins clasped his hands before him. “And I think it’s past time you four returned to school. The department thanks you for your service in this ugly business.”

  Handshakes were exchanged, then the four of us stepped out into the hall. Harris closed the door behind us, no doubt so we wouldn’t see her victory dance. I knew this conviction would boost her career.