Exposure Point: A gripping small town mystery. (The Candidates Book 1)

by M. D. Archer

“I’m sure you’re mistaken.” She pursed her lips. “You really should be careful about the things you say, Calliope. You can’t go throwing around accusations like that.”

  “But—”

  She turned and shuffled into the back room, returning a moment later with a pile of files. “More files for you.” She pushed them into my arms.

  I took them, looked up, and froze.

  “Oh.”

  Logan Kerry stood at the doorway to the office. How long had he been there? He was talking on his cell, but had he heard me talking about drinking and shredding things?

  “Calliope?”

  I turned a little to see Mr. Ellison, my biology teacher from last year, next to Logan. He had a funny expression on his face. “What are you doing back there?”

  “I work here.”

  “You do?” he said, his voice rising in surprise. “What on earth…?”

  If they awarded a prize for Least Attention Paid in Class, then Mr. Ellison would have given it to me in biology, so I wasn’t exactly his favourite person. But he and Isaac were super tight, obsessed with the same brain stuff, and he’d even been Isaac’s unofficial academic mentor.

  He cleared his throat. “How’s Isaac?”

  “Um, he’s good.”

  “He’ll be starting his neuroscience program today.” Mr. Ellison nodded and pushed his glasses farther up on his nose, seeming to lose interest in me as he turned to speak to Mrs. Pemberton.

  As they chatted, I forced myself to face Logan, still hovering near the entrance to the office, still talking on his phone. I watched as he ended the call, shoved his phone into his pocket, and looked up, seeming amused as he cast his eyes around the inside of the office. When his gaze landed on me, his eyes narrowed. He lifted his chin as if deciding what to do, then raised his index finger and tapped it on the side of his nose.

  What did that mean?

  “Logan, have you met Mrs. Pemberton, our office administrator?” Mr. Ellison said.

  As Logan turned to her, his face transformed into a smile. “Yes, I’ve had the pleasure.” He winked and reached out his hand. “I bet she’s trouble, this one,” he said, dropping his head to kiss her hand. Mrs. Pemberton’s cheeks flooded pink, and she tilted her head to give a shy nod. What was going on? He’d called her trouble, but she was acting as if he was on the Bachelor and he’d just given her a rose.

  “Logan and I were in the same college during undergrad,” Mr. Ellison continued, announcing this as if it was an exciting coincidence. They had to be around the same age, but they almost didn’t look like they belonged to the same century. Mr. Ellison had on an actual tweed jacket and spectacles, topped with an extremely uncool hairstyle, while Logan had designer sunglasses propped on his head and wore a stylish shirt. “Anyway, I’ll leave you here, Logan.” Mr. Ellison stepped backward out of the office.

  Logan turned to Mrs. Pemberton, a smile still on his face, and pushed over a piece of paper. “Now, darling, can you tell me why this appeared in my office without an envelope?” he said smoothly.

  “Let’s have a look, shall we?” Mrs. Pemberton put on her glasses, and I leaned over her shoulder. It was the invoice I’d given to Cole. “What’s the problem?” she asked.

  “It was supposed to be emailed to me.”

  “It was posted,” Mrs. Pemberton said with a smile.

  “Yes.” Logan’s smile started to look a little forced. “Who opened it?” he continued. Mrs. Pemberton glanced at me, but before she decided whether to rat me out, he carried on. “It says private and confidential.”

  “I know, but sometimes the mail gets opened.”

  Logan was breathing in and out through his nose, and it was obvious to me that he was annoyed and trying to control his temper—I’d seen Ms. Spencer make a very similar face when people messed up her choreography.

  As Mrs. Pemberton continued to beam at him, he took a step back and ran his hands through his hair. “Confidential reports will come into the health centre… patient reports. We have to protect patient confidentiality at all times, okay?” Mrs. Pemberton nodded earnestly. “Have I got my best woman on the job?” he added with another wink. Mrs. Pemberton blushed again and made a clucking sound.

  “Um, excuse me,” I said. “But did you have, uh… was there a burglary at the health centre?” I blurted.

  Logan’s expression turned wary.

  “Do you have security guards?” I continued.

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, um, I—”

  “It’s nothing,” Mrs. Pemberton said quickly, clutching at my arm. “She says silly things sometimes.” She drew me closer until I was squished up against her cushiony side. “Calliope is our part-time office assistant, but she’s only here for a couple of months. We took her on as a favour to Ms. Spencer,” she added unnecessarily. “While her foot heals.”

  Gee, thanks, Mrs. Pemberton. Way to make it sound as if I was some sort of Montrose community project—a charity case.

  Logan stayed where he was, eyeing me for a moment before he spoke. “Tell me, Mrs. Pemberton—”

  “Oh, call me Alice, please.”

  “Alice. Are people who don’t work for you allowed back there?” He gestured behind us. Mrs. Pemberton turned to consider the space, as if there might be someone unexpectedly standing back there.

  “Well, no, of course not. There are all sorts of things back here they shouldn’t have access to.”

  “And if you found someone behind the front desk, when you were otherwise engaged…?”

  “Well, I’d be rather suspicious, of course.”

  Logan nodded slowly, his eyes locking with mine. “That’s what I thought.” He abruptly turned on his heel, waving over his shoulder.

  After a moment, Mrs. Pemberton sighed. “Well, isn’t he a sight for sore eyes.”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t you think he’s lovely?” Mrs. Pemberton smiled dreamily.

  No, he seems totally sketch, I wanted to say, but as I watched her reapplying lipstick and fluffing her hair happily, I decided to keep my mouth shut. She obviously had a major crush, and I already knew Mrs. Pemberton wasn’t interested in what I thought about pretty much anything.

  ***

  Logan was still on my mind when I got home.

  I flopped onto my bed and picked up my phone. Could I do some sort of internet search to figure out just how shady Logan was? But what would it be, some sort of Sketch Alert that I could print out and show Mrs. Pemberton tomorrow? Did I expect his name to pop up on a Most Wanted list that was somehow available to the public?

  My phone started to buzz. Ms. Spencer was calling me—an unpleasant reminder that I had other things to worry about. I held my breath and eyed the display until it stopped ringing. I didn’t know how much longer I could ignore her and the awful throb of unease in my stomach.

  Not to mention the growing certainty that the life I had all mapped out, the life Mom was desperate for us to have together, was one I no longer wanted.

  nikki

  From Nikki De Luca’s very first running race, it had been clear she was a natural. Coach had said she was born to run, and a runner was what she’d become.

  But it wasn’t running she’d fallen in love with, it was the feeling of control, the way she could command her body. On the track it was just her, putting one foot in front of the other, moving forward. Her body, her mind. No one else.

  The wind, the ground, the sun, and her.

  Both Nikki and her running coach held their breath and crossed their fingers as she went through puberty. How much would her body change? Would she go from a lanky running star to a chubby sluggish teen? But no. Her body remained the right shape—at most, she only had to lose a few pounds each year to optimize her power-to-weight ratio—and so she continued. Her ability to control her body and her mind, there was nothing else like it. When she was running, she felt perfect. And when she felt perfect, she felt calm.

  Her alarm sounded—a harsh, grating b
uzz—but Nikki was already getting out of bed and pulling on her tracksuit.

  She moved through to her private bathroom and brushed her teeth. No food before morning training; she would have an energy drink on the way and then a perfectly measured and proportioned protein-carb-fat shake—extra calcium—thirty to sixty minutes after she’d finished.

  She spat out the toothpaste and ran the faucet but stayed standing at the basin. Her hands felt dirty. She washed them carefully, moving her right hand over her left ten times until the soap ran clear. She pumped out more soap from the dispenser and washed her hands again, this time running her left hand over her right. Ten times. There. Even. Symmetrical.

  Doubt pinched her shoulders. No, stop. They were clean; washing them any more would be completely over the top.

  Her phone, lying on her bed, buzzed. Probably Liam with one of his ridiculous early morning messages. One of his photos.

  Liam could wait. The scout was coming in one month.

  That was what she had to focus on.

  5

  I’d been so busy in the office this morning—we had to prepare for the grade twelve Your Future session tomorrow, and Mrs. Pemberton had disappeared to some meeting—I didn’t get a chance to even use the washroom, let alone worry about Logan Kerry and everything else rattling around my head.

  A few minutes before the lunch bell, my reminder alarm sounded. I was supposed to show that new student around school. I looked out toward the hall. I needed to use the washroom, but Mrs. Pemberton wasn’t back yet. I couldn’t leave the office unattended. I picked up my phone, about to text her—I knew she did the whole texting thing because I’d seen her—when suddenly she appeared around the corner.

  “Coo-ee,” she said happily, her apricot lipstick looking freshly applied. “You’re still okay to come in early and help set up for the session tomorrow morning?”

  I nodded, edging toward the door.

  “Don’t forget you’re showing the student around,” she added, pursing her lips as she watched my progression out of the office.

  “I haven’t, but I need to use the washroom first.” I scurried out and down the hall to the closest one.

  Inside, a girl stood at the mirror, pouting as she applied lip gloss. My eyes were immediately drawn to her fingernails. Beautifully crafted oblongs in a shimmering silver colour. As if aware of the attention, she brushed her hand against her cheek, letting it linger at the side of her face, then turned away from her reflection to regard me instead. She tilted her head and crossed her arms, pursing her lips. She was clearly sussing me out, my place in the high school hierarchy. Even though I’d never seen her before, I knew instantly where she belonged—pretty, nice clothes, athletic-looking, and an entitled air—but what she was thinking about me? Under her scrutiny, I had the unpleasant feeling I’d been absent the day they’d handed out identity cards.

  “I’m Amanda,” she said finally.

  “Hi. I’m Calliope.”

  “Huh. Weird name.” She said this with a half-smile, like it wasn’t an insult. Of course I knew it was an unusual name. It was pronounced Ka-LYE-o-pee, and if it was being read off a list, it often got butchered.

  Amanda shifted her weight to the other foot and continued to eye me.

  “People mostly call me Callie,” I said into the silence.

  “Oh, right, cool.” She nodded as if she approved, as if this shortened version was okay with her. “So, what’s your deal?” she asked.

  “My deal?”

  “Are you, like, into sports?” She waved her hand at my moonboot and raised her sculpted eyebrows as she waited for me to answer.

  My stomach contracted. Weirdly, I couldn’t think of anything to say. But then I didn’t have to.

  “Oh, wait, you’re Callie. I heard you’re, like, this amazing dancer, but you’ve injured your foot and you might have ruined your chance of, like, going pro. You were supposed to move to the city, but you had to come back to school? I’d be so pissed if I thought I’d gotten out of school, but then I had to come back,” she continued. “And for final year too. There’s so much work. I already have so much homework. Oh, and I had a teacher called Mr. Spazzer today. Can you believe it? I guess you’re used to it. Do you have him?” She wrinkled her nose. “He seems weird.”

  “It’s pronounced Spaiser,” I said.

  It was obvious she thought I was also a student, but before I could correct her, she was talking again.

  “You’re supposed to show me around, right? My parents sometimes make me work at their hotels. They say it’s good for college applications, and I can say I have management experience. They are so intense.” She shook her head. “Do you know The Montana, the hotel downtown?”

  I nodded—that’s where Mom worked—but I wasn’t sure I was actually part of this conversation.

  “They bought that, so we moved here. I can’t believe I have to be the new girl for final year.” She cast her eyes up as if she had the worst luck. Suddenly she flashed a high wattage but not totally genuine smile at me. “Anyway, I’m busy right now and I’ve kind of already seen everything, but we should go to the hockey rally after school. What’s the team like?”

  “Uh….” I eyed her for a second before continuing. “Pretty crappy.”

  She rolled her eyes. “My parents won’t be happy.”

  “Your parents? Why?”

  “They’re obsessed with being associated with the best. For everything.”

  “Even—”

  “Even high school athletics teams. I know. Like I said, they’re intense.”

  Maybe Amanda wasn’t so bad—I could definitely relate to having intense parents who had intense expectations. Well, one, anyway. Dad was way more chill than Mom.

  “I think we’ve got a couple of decent players?” I said, trying to remember something about our ice hockey team. “But we don’t win a lot of games,” I added.

  She shrugged. “Whatever. Let’s go anyway. See you after school.”

  “Uh, sure.” It didn’t seem possible to give any other answer.

  “Meet at the office to walk over.”

  It wasn’t a question, and she didn’t wait for a response. She tossed her hair and waved her fingers before she turned gracefully on her heel and walked out.

  I stayed standing at the basin. I’d totally let her think I was a student. How was I going to explain myself without it seeming weird? I shook off the uneasy feeling. It’d be fine. When I saw her after school, I’d tell her and we’d laugh it off as a misunderstanding.

  ***

  By 8:00 a.m. the next day, Mrs. Pemberton and I had finished setting up the rec hall for the Your Future session. We’d placed all the folding chairs in the middle and set up the various information stalls around the edges, and we’d even hung up a few streamers. It looked pretty good, but Mrs. Pemberton thought a few balloons might add a bit more flair, as she called it, and had gone back to the office to find the extra box of decorations she was sure she had somewhere. Meanwhile, I was wandering around the mostly empty room, checking out the information stands.

  We’d had one of these last year, but I couldn’t remember a single thing about it—my dance-and-Isaac blinkers had been firmly in place. Now, as I strolled from booth to booth, a strange combination of emotions surged around my body. Was it panic, fear, or excitement? Maybe the specific emotion didn’t even matter, because the news headline in this moment was that I was actually interested in what was on offer.

  Had Dance Barbie broken out of her box and started looking around?

  As people started to arrive and mill around the rec hall, I took a seat and checked my phone. No messages. I hadn’t spoken to Isaac properly in a couple of days, and while I’d been pretty busy, he hadn’t exactly been hammering me with messages either. We used to be inseparable; how was it this easy being apart?

  The hum of noise in the rec hall grew as it filled with students. A couple of teachers arrived, chatting with each other, and Logan was with them. All thre
e stopped at the information table next to the entrance. Logan said something and slapped one of them on the back, making him laugh. The teachers ambled away, but Logan stayed where he was and looked down at the sign-in sheet. He checked his watch, then suddenly raised his eyes to catch my stare. I quickly dropped my gaze and pretended to do something on my phone until I was sure he’d switched focus to something else.

  “What’s up, Callie?” Dean Johnson said as he ambled by.

  “Hey.” I’d never talked to Dean before. He played basketball, did karate, and partied, and that was pretty much it, so our worlds had never had any reason to collide. But people seemed to know who I was now. Or maybe they always had, and it was me who’d changed. Now I was paying attention.

  “Sucks to be at school when you could be dancing,” he added.

  I lifted my shoulders. “Yeah.”

  “Dean, you locked down that b-ball scholarship yet?” someone called out.

  “Any day now, bro.” Dean turned to walk backward for a couple of steps. “But don’t stop dancing on the inside, Callie,” he finished with a grin, loping away, his tall frame visible above the other students.

  When Amanda strolled in, arms linked with Brooke Masters, Montrose High’s reigning Queen B, I wasn’t surprised. Yesterday, I’d waited outside the office for her so we could go to the rally together as agreed, but when she’d finally appeared in the hall, she’d been with Brooke. As they sauntered past, clearly blowing me off, she’d waved one hand in my direction as if she was doing me a favour by even acknowledging my presence.

  They took seats at the front, and Brooke, always happiest with as many eyes on her as possible, gathered up her long blonde hair and then shook her head so it tumbled down her back. I watched Amanda eye Brooke, then pull her own dark hair out of her ponytail so it also hung loose around her shoulders. They looked kind of ridiculous, the two of them, like they were in a hair commercial in the middle of a school event. I started to smile to myself until I realized Amanda had turned in her seat to look right at me, tilting her head in a calculating way. I looked away.

  “Hey, Callie.”