Exposure (28 page)

“Did you have something to say, Miss Brennan?”

“No, sir. Just that I hope the police find Lucy and Peter. And that they’re well.”

“Yes, of course.” Paugh replaced his glasses. “Your island friends missed class this morning as well. Same reason?”

“Yessir.” Hoping my eyes didn’t betray me.

“Ella Francis also? She missed a presentation she’ll have difficulty making up.”

I stiffened. “Ella missed psych today?”

“Yes.” Paugh’s eyes narrowed. “She wasn’t with you?”

“No,” I said, unable to hide my surprise.

The headmaster was right—Ella had a major group project due that morning, one that counted for a third of her semester grade. She’d been whining about it for weeks. Missing the presentation was going to cause her all kinds of headaches.

Paugh waved a hand. “Very well, please return to class.”

I beelined for the door.

“And, Miss Brennan?”

I turned, doorknob in hand. “Yes?”

“No more of this. I’ll be paying attention.”

I nodded, then scurried into the hallway.

How many offices will I run from today?

• • •

I was grabbing my econ book when I remembered Ella.

She must be sick as a dog, or she’d have been there.

Slipping into the ladies room, I checked to be sure I was alone. Then I dialed Ella’s cell.

Four rings. No answer. Voicemail.

I called again, thinking she might be asleep. Same result.

“Ugh.”

I disconnected and sent a text: U OK? U missed psych!

After waiting a full minute, I gave up and stepped back into the hall.

I had my own problems.

The B-Series files we’d downloaded from Candela’s server. What could they be? Why the encryption? How did they fit with Karsten’s old project?

I hadn’t the slightest doubt Chance was involved.

But why the freaking aquarium? What was Chance doing there?

Find out. Crack the files.

Hurrying to class, a single question dominated my thoughts.

How?

H
eadmaster Declan Paugh peered through his office blinds.

Making a space with his finger, he watched Tory Brennan disappear down the hall.

Trouble from the start.

Paugh released the slats and returned to his desk. It was Edwardian, a rare example of late-reign oak treatments that fell out of the court’s favor.

Paugh adored it.

Like so little else in a world filled with disposable plastic abominations—cheap, soulless replications—this desk had
character.
A testament to the class and refinement of a better time.

Paugh’s mission in life was to preserve Bolton Preparatory Academy in the same manner.

To hold back the creeping poison of modernity that was destroying polite society.

And I’m failing. One concession at a time.

Allowing the Loggerhead Trust to send students on scholarships had been a mistake. That much was obvious now. But at the time, money had been vital.

Paugh’s predecessor had possessed no head for business. He might even have been a crook. It’d taken years to right the books, all while hiding the academy’s dire fiscal picture under the rug.

But he’d done it. Bolton was back on firm footing.

If the parents only knew what Herculean measures he’d taken to make it so, they’d give him a service medal. A parade.

Not to be. Burying all signs of distress had been Rule Number One.

Without its sterling reputation, the academy was nothing.

But those kids are still here. Three of them, anyway.

That cursed trial! What a nightmare. Publicity was anathema to everything Bolton Prep stood for. Paugh didn’t care about putting some petty thug away. He wanted the
media
away.

And now they were back. Prowling his gates. Disturbing his sanctuary. If those cretins kept poking around, who knows what they might find?

Those blasted Gable twins. A problem without an answer.

Things were spiraling out of control. Paugh had begun to feel very, very nervous.

Just do as you were told. No more, no less.

That wasn’t the headmaster’s style, but in this matter his hands were tied.

Sighing, Declan Paugh picked up his cell phone and dialed.

I
checked my iPhone after last period.

Nothing. No calls. No texts. Ella had been absent all day.

I swung by Coach Lynch’s office, but he hadn’t heard from her either. After begging my way out of practice—promising to rejoin the squad ASAP—I headed for the gate.

Shelton and Hi were waiting.

“Change of plans,” I said. “I’m gonna run by Ella’s place before going home.”

Shelton scratched his nose. “Why? Looking to collect another virus?”

“She missed a big thing in psych today, and didn’t return any of my texts. That’s not like her. I wanna make sure she’s okay. See if she needs anything.”

“You want us to walk with you?” Hi asked casually. “I’ve got nothing else to do.”

I smirked. “You can come, Romeo.”

“You sure?” Hi licked his palm, then used it to slick his hair. “With me around, she might not even notice you’re there.”

“I’ll risk it. I’m just popping my head in, anyway. Shelton?”

He shrugged. “Why not? Mr. Blue will want to ferry us together anyway.”

“Good point. Can you text him we’ll be late?”

Shelton nodded, digging out his iPhone as we headed down the street.

The Francis family lived in South of Broad, the ultra-exclusive neighborhood at the tip of the peninsula. While not as imposing as Claybourne Manor—located just a few blocks away—Ella’s home was still a registered historical landmark.

After a few short blocks, we turned right onto Logan Street. Ella lived directly across from Saint Peter’s Cemetery, which she claimed gave her the creeps.

As we strolled down the row of pristine mansions, it occurred to me how improbable our friendship was. If I hadn’t been lucky enough to attend Bolton on scholarship, it’s unlikely Ella and I would’ve ever met. The thought made me sad.

Which is why I didn’t see the flashing lights.

“Tory?” Shelton pointed to a knot of houses ahead. Several squad cars were parked on the street before the. “Is one of those Ella’s?”

“Yes.” I was running before the word left my mouth.

As I streaked down the block, an evidence recovery van began backing into a narrow driveway. I nearly moaned. That was Ella’s property.

The Francis home was constructed in traditional Charleston style: long and narrow, with the side of the house parallel to the street. Cops were milling by the front door, which opened onto a sweeping piazza that ran the length of the house.

The bright yellow structure rose three stories, with balconies on each level overlooking an interior courtyard garden. A round metal plaque bolted to the gate detailed the building’s three-hundred-year history.

I burst through a gaggle of cops and onto the porch, then raced to the door leading inside. Shouts chased after me, but I ignored them, panic bubbling in my chest.

Ella’s parents were seated on a narrow couch in the parlor, hands tightly clenched.

Mr. Francis’s eyes were bloodshot. Tears streaked his wife’s cheeks. Opposite them, a visibly uncomfortable Detective Hawfield was perched on a slender divan, taking a statement.

I shot to their side. “What’s happened? Where’s Ella?”

“They’ve taken her!” Mrs. Francis wailed, collapsing into her husband’s arms. “My precious little girl!”

“Tory!” Detective Hawfield juggled his clipboard, struggling to stand. “What are you doing here? This is a crime scene.”

I don’t think I heard. My mind had jumped the tracks.

Taken. Ella.

Oh please, please, no.

“Officer Kirkham! Please remove this child from the premises! How did she get by—”

A hand reached for me. I spun, kicked the man in the shin. I leaped back from the muttered curses and fired up the stairs.

One flight. Two. Three. Ella’s bedroom was on the top floor.

“Grab her!” Hawfield bellowed. “Don’t let her taint the crime scene!”

Boots thundered on the steps behind me. Then a crash, followed by angry shouts.

“Leave her alone!” Hi’s voice.

Reaching the top floor, I ran to Ella’s room. Found three CSI techs inside, snapping pics.

“You can’t be in here,” a woman said. “This room is sealed.”

I ignored her, eyes scanning the room. I didn’t know what I was looking for. Didn’t have a plan. But I
had
to help. Had to find a clue. A lead. Some evidence to solve the case.

Anything to save my friend.

Then I saw it.

An old, hand-painted playing card was sitting on Ella’s bed.

I flew over and picked it up, drawing shouts from the CSI crew.

My eyes drank in the design.

A serpentine fish, painted gold, bristling with claws, teeth, and scales.

The image struck terror into my heart. I lost control.

“What is this?” I shrieked at the card. “What have you done with Ella!?!”

Hands on my shoulders. An arm around my waist.

I was dragged backward from the room. Someone snatched the card from my fingers.

Everything came crashing down.

I screamed at the top of my lungs. Kept screaming, over and over.

Then the world went black and I remembered nothing more.

K
it’s footsteps receded down the hall.

With an ear pressed to my bedroom door, I heard him mumble something to Whitney. Her response was inaudible. Seconds later the TV clicked on.

Beside me, Coop nuzzled my hand. I absently scratched his back.

I knew Kit was worried. Who wouldn’t be? His teenage daughter just had a nervous breakdown at a crime scene.

Retreating onto my bed, I grabbed my iPhone. Checked email. Voicemail. Text messages. Chat. Nothing from the other Virals. I hadn’t heard from anyone since this afternoon.

Clock check—8:00 p.m.

Coop settled down beside the bed, his eyes never leaving me.

The holes in my memory were slowly filling.

I recalled flashing lights. The mass of police officers. Mr. and Mrs. Francis, red-eyed on their silly little couch. My mad dash up the stairs. A rush of blood to the head.