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

  I opened and closed my mouth, trying to find something to say.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, looking uncertain. “Lamb? Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, uh, just… Isaac.”

  “But soon you’ll be part of a whole new world, Calliope. You’ll see.” Mom took my hands in hers, her eyes bright with emotion. “I’m so glad we have this. It’s our thing, and no one can take it away from us.”

  “Mmm.”

  “And I can’t wait. I need a change. I need to get away from Montrose too, in all honesty. I’ll easily find a job in the city. A better one.” The lines of worry on her forehead suddenly disappeared and she smiled. “We’re going to have so many adventures.”

  I nodded dumbly, trying to extract myself from her clutches. “Yeah,” I tried to say brightly as I edged backward. “Hey, I’m really tired.” I gestured upstairs. “Night.” I turned and ran up the stairs as fast as I could.

  “Careful of your foot, Calliope,” Mom called after me.

  Inside my bedroom, I leaned against the door. No matter how much I tried to pretend everything was fine, my world was starting to tilt upside down.

  And it wasn’t just Isaac leaving.

  Right at the cusp of my exciting new life as a dancer, I’d injured my foot. But instead of being frustrated or crushed that I couldn’t audition… I’d been relieved.

  I was starting to wonder whether my injury had been an accident at all.

  Maybe my subconscious was screaming at me to wake up.

  2

  From my desk in the Montrose High admin office, on the far side and right next to the back window, I watched the woman hurry across the faculty parking lot.

  Today, the same as every other day, she was wearing bright blue leather ankle boots. I had no clue where she came from or why she cut through the school at lunchtime—or why she didn’t seem to own any other footwear—but I didn’t really care beyond idle interest.

  That wasn’t why I was glued to the window.

  I’d only been working here a week, but I’d already noticed there was a pretty firm daily schedule. It would start with Mrs. Pemberton, the school administrator and my boss, giving me an unrequested rundown of the previous night’s episode of Coronation Street while I sipped coffee and surreptitiously scrolled through my feed. Then Mrs. Pemberton would check emails while I got on with the next stack of scanning and uploading old files to the new system—the main reason I’d been hired as an office assistant. At around noon, the blue boot woman would cross the parking lot and Mrs. Pemberton would go to eat her Weight Watchers salad in the staffroom—that’s supposedly all her diet allowed, but she always came back smelling of cookies. And finally….

  “Calliope?”

  “Huh? Um, yes?”

  Mrs. Pemberton grunted a little as she got up from her chair at the front desk. She brought over a pile of mail along with a gust of her flowery perfume.

  “Be a dear and sort this into the staff cubbyholes.” She raised her eyebrows and nodded so that her lacquered helmet of hair wobbled. Mrs. Pemberton wasn’t quite nailing things in the personal style department, but as a boss she wasn’t too bad. I didn’t have much to compare her to, but she usually wasn’t grumpy, and she was often distracted, which suited me fine because I was pretty distracted as well.

  “Sure.”

  “And before this afternoon, you’ll copy the newsletter and put it in the cubbyholes, as well as leave enough for student distribution on Monday morning?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Mrs. Pemberton eyed me warily. “It’s very important that everyone gets the newsletter. It sets the right tone at the start of the school year.” She nodded earnestly. “Everyone reads it, you know. They look forward to it.”

  “Right.” I tried not to sound doubtful.

  We’d already talked about The First Newsletter of the School Year about a million times. Mrs. Pemberton had typed it up but had asked me to do the formatting. Now all I had to do was print off the final version and photocopy it for the whole school, and then everyone could move on with their lives.

  “Right, I’m off to lunch, then. See you in an hour,” she said, clutching her purse to her side as she waddled out of the office.

  Immediately, I swiveled around and fixed my gaze on the entrance to the brand-new Montrose High health centre, sitting directly across the lot. I’d only become aware of it when I started this job, and I’d only become obsessed with staring at the entrance since I caught a glimpse of him. So where was he? He was part of the routine. Every day, at a little after twelve, he’d emerge from the centre wearing headphones and running gear and go for a lunchtime run.

  I checked the time and the window again as I picked up and opened the first envelope from the pile of mail. It wasn’t until I glanced down that I realized the letter was marked Private & Confidential. Whoops. I was only supposed to open mail addressed to the admin office, and this was addressed to Mr. Logan Kerry. I knew the name—he was the manager of the new health centre—but I hadn’t seen him yet.

  The letter was a single page, and it was an invoice for medical equipment: sterile gloves, gauze, syringes, and test kits. Feeling guilty, I took the invoice over to the cubbyholes and shoved it quickly in the health centre one. Hopefully no one would notice. I’d already made a few mistakes, and I could tell by Mrs. Pemberton’s reaction that most of them had been pretty dumb.

  I got back to my desk and took a moment to stretch—my body wasn’t used to this much sitting—then sat down again and went back to the mail.

  The next time I looked up, I saw him, coming out of the health centre as normal but wearing jeans and a T-shirt. And instead of breaking into an easy run straight away, fast without seeming to be trying at all, he just stood there. Maybe a few years older than me, he was tall and athletic-looking—he was somehow graceful even motionless. His head dropped as he checked his phone, and then he turned back to look at the glass doors of the health centre, shaking his head as if annoyed. He slid his phone into his pocket, turned, and started down the path. Obviously a jock, but he also seemed thoughtful and serious, like he might be smart too. Romance novel-type terms popped in my head: brooding, chiseled jaw, piercing eyes.

  When my chest became tight, I realized I was holding my breath. I shook my head and kept watching. As he followed the winding path through the parking lot, I leaned forward to keep track of him. I didn’t know his name because after I saw him the first time, I hadn’t the guts to ask Mrs. Pemberton. As if. Cringe. And he couldn’t be Logan Kerry, the manager of the centre, could he? He was way too young.

  As he moved out of my line of sight, I clambered up to kneel awkwardly on the chair, craning my neck farther to catch sight of him. I pulled myself up higher, balancing with my uninjured left leg on the chair and my right leg kneeling on the desk, so I could press my face right up against the window.

  There was a noise behind me.

  Oh no.

  “Uh, hi?” a voice said.

  A voice that probably belonged to the guy I’d just been watching.

  Could I pretend this wasn’t happening? Reality kicked in: my arm was beginning to shake with effort, and my muscles were cramping. I turned my head as far as I could from where I was and saw a strong-looking forearm leaning on the counter, fingers drumming against the surface. I flicked my eyes upward. Yep, it was him all right, and from his expression, he knew what I’d been looking at.

  “Oh, um,” I stammered as I tried to face him, but the movement made the chair swivel and slide away, taking my leg with it. I tensed, trying to stop the momentum, but the chair swung out beyond my control, making it impossible for my arms to keep supporting me. Time seemed to slow down as gravity took over. A second later I crashed to the ground.

  Epic.

  I looked up, propped myself up on my elbow, and brushed the hair out of my eyes. I lifted my chin, trying to act as if all this was totally normal. “What can I help you with?”

  “Hey… are you okay? Yo
u’re already injured,” he said, gesturing at the moonboot. “Let me help,” he added, coming around the counter.

  “I’m fine,” I said quickly, but he bent down anyway, gently gripping my shoulders to help me up. I sucked in a breath. Up close, I could see none of my earlier terms did him justice. Further details lodged in my brain: he had a dimple on one cheek but not on the other, a square and symmetrically handsome face, and his eyes were just ridiculous.

  I pushed against him and scrambled to stand. “I’m fine. Uh, sorry… gotta go.” I hobbled into the back room and leaned against the door, trying to get myself together. Okay, yes, I fell off my chair, and yes, it was in front of the lunchtime-run hottie, but having a panic attack was a bit over the top.

  Once my breathing had calmed down, I straightened my shirt, promised myself I’d act like a normal person from now on, and stepped out of the back room. He was still there, leaning on the counter flicking through his phone.

  “Hey,” he said, looking up with a puzzled smile. “What were you doing back there?” His eyes connected with mine and I gulped. He shifted his weight, waiting for me to say something, but it seemed as if both language and my voice had deserted me.

  “Hey, are you all right?” he asked, standing up again and scratching his head. A vein ran up the inside of his forearm and disappeared into the crook of his elbow. It made his arm look strong but his skin soft, and I could see a hint of bicep peeking from beneath the sleeve of his shirt.

  Why was I staring at his arms?

  “Uh… I’m fine,” I said finally, nodding—a jerky movement.

  “Okay, right, good.” He glanced at me as if he didn’t believe me but continued. “We need an up-to-date student list for the health centre. One for each grade.”

  “Yep,” I squeaked. Great. I sounded as if I’d been inhaling helium in the back room. “But I can’t,” I managed to say in a normal voice. “I mean… I can’t get that. I don’t have access to the enrolment system, but Mrs. Pemberton will be back after lunch.”

  In the silence, I got the impression he wasn’t used to having to wait for anything.

  “Sure. As soon as possible, though, okay?” He smiled. It was an easy grin that accentuated his dimple and probably let him get away with murder.

  “Wait.” I swallowed and cleared my throat, a few brain cells finally kicking into gear. “Something came through for you, or at least, uh….” I hobbled over to the cubbyhole to get the invoice that had come in the mail. I pushed it over the counter. Transferring it to his actual hand seemed impossible.

  He read it and nodded. “I’ll give this to Logan. Thanks.”

  He wasn’t Logan. Of course not. I was weirdly relieved.

  “Hey, I’ll give you my email for the class list,” he said. “And I’ll add my cell, just in case.” As he reached over the counter to pick up the notepad sitting next to the phone, I got a waft of body spray or deodorant, or maybe it was aftershave. I leaned forward a couple of inches as he scribbled on the message pad. “I’m Cole, by the way,” he added, pushing the pad back toward me. I nodded, taking in the angles of his cheekbones and the light dusting of stubble across his jaw. The silence continued. “And you are?” he said finally.

  Oh, right. I floundered for a second. “Uh… Calliope.”

  He nodded, gave me an amused half-smile, and left.

  “But you can call me Callie,” I said to the empty space in front of me.

  I exhaled and went back to my desk. That was kind of surreal. I stared at the piece of paper with his email address—[email protected]—and then, feeling a bit weird, entered his number into my phone.

  Just in case.

  So who exactly was Cole Harris Nelson, and why had he suddenly appeared in Montrose? I typed his name into all the socials I could think of, with no luck. As a last resort, I tried Facebook. I hastily typed his name in the top search bar and hit enter, but it didn’t work—no list of possible Coles came up. Weird. I was about to try again when I noticed something that made me shiver with disbelief.

  A new status update had just popped up.

  Mine.

  It said Cole Har.

  Instead of typing it into the top search bar, I had typed it as my status update. His whole name hadn’t registered but Cole Har was bad enough.

  Oh God, how do you delete your updates?

  My hands were shaking as I checked settings and options. A “like” popped up and then another. OMG. Why are they even on Facebook and what are they “liking”?

  Finally, panic flooding my body, I managed to delete the update. I closed Facebook and threw myself forward with my head on my hands. I couldn’t believe I’d done that; how stupid that was.

  But at exactly 9:12 p.m. the next night, I realized my cringe-inducing status update wasn’t the dumbest thing I’d done that day.

  3

  I stood in my bedroom and stared at the piece of paper, the crumpled copy of the newsletter that had somehow found its way into my bag.

  Mrs. Pemberton’s treasured newsletter.

  I reread the headline running across the top in that extra bold font I’d chosen, as if there was a possibility it might change.

  I read until my eyes started to blur.

  How had I not seen this? I’d assured Mrs. Pemberton that I had it under control, and it had already been xeroxed enough times that everyone and their cousin could have a copy. But it had a huge, awful, and totally inappropriate typo in the heading. The worst possible kind. There was no way Mrs. Pemberton had written that—did she even know that word?—so I must have done it while I was changing the font or something. And how had I copied it so many times without noticing?

  I had to correct my mistake. I had to get that newsletter out of the staff cubbyholes and off the front desk. And I had to do it tonight because Mrs. Pemberton said she might go into the office tomorrow, Sunday, to make sure everything was set for the start of the school year.

  And since Mom got home around eleven, I had to do it now.

  I wheeled my pushbike out of our small garage and started toward the school. The streets were deserted but for a handful of joggers and dog walkers appearing and disappearing again like ghosts. A few golden brown leaves fluttered around me as I breathed in the calm of the night. I liked the influx of visitors we got in the tourist seasons, but I loved how quiet it became in fall even more.

  As I cycled down Main Street toward Montrose High, my phone buzzed. I pulled up to a stop just in case it was Mom telling me she was coming home early, but it was Isaac. He was at a party, standing next to a mountain of pizzas with a blissful expression. I bit my lip. He was already having a great time, and his absence felt like a wound. The kind that throbbed, demanding attention. The kind you had to pick at, only making it worse. The kind that could get infected until you got gangrene and had to get a limb amputated.

  I shook my head to get myself out of my starting-to-sound-a-little-crazy thoughts and looked up and around, wondering what not-lame-seeming photo I could send back.

  I found myself looking into the Golden Sun restaurant at a man who, I realized after a moment, was Big Mike, Discovery Diner’s grumpy chef. He was sitting at a largish round table next to Ms. Michaels, the new principal at Montrose High—I’d met her on my first day at the office. Ms. Michaels sat next to a glamorous-looking man and woman I’d never seen before—they were definitely new to Montrose. Beside them were Mr. and Mrs. Levene, who I recognized because Isaac was study buddies with their daughter Emily, and while Mrs. Levene was Montrose’s town doctor, Mr. Levene’s face was plastered on a billboard on Discovery Road. It advertised his business, some sort of freight company.

  “Calliope?”

  I startled and turned to see Ms. Spencer approaching, her jet-black chin-length bob swishing as she walked, but only a little—not a single hair would dare to jump out of place. Her mouth was set in a line. “Why haven’t I seen you at the studio? You agreed to keep up your general conditioning.”

  �
�Uh….”

  I had to keep off my foot, but that didn’t give me an all-access pass to slob around. I was supposed to work on my fitness, upper body strength, and flexibility.

  “That boot is going to come off soon, and you need to be ready to go straight away.”

  “Another audition has already been set up?”

  For a moment she looked uncertain—Ms. Spencer was never uncertain—but then nodded. “Not yet… but it will be any moment,” she added with a firm nod. I tried to smile as she stepped closer. “What are you doing standing out here?” Her eyes flicked down to my moonboot, and I was grateful I was on the bike; otherwise, she’d for sure tell me off for not resting my foot properly.

  “Uh, just—”

  “So when will you go to the studio?”

  “Probably—”

  “You need to do your strength work.”

  “Yeah, I—”

  “Calliope.” Her tone was a warning. “Now is not the time to lose focus.”

  I nodded.

  She glanced at her watch. “I’m officially late. Night.” She hurried past me and pushed open the door to the Golden Sun restaurant.

  Trying to shake off the dread-like sensation I now associated with Ms. Spencer, I got back on my bike and headed to the school. I dropped my bike next to the front steps and hobbled up the stairs to the main entrance. Before I let myself inside, I glanced around one more time and then slid the key into the lock. Empty corridors and dim lighting greeted me.

  Wow, the school was creepy at night. Also, it smelt kind of weird. Did it always smell like this and I just didn’t normally notice? Or was it a night-time smell? I shook my head.

  Focus, Calliope.

  Using only the light on my phone to guide me, I unlocked the admin office and went straight to the main computer. I opened up the file manager and found the newsletter I’d butchered. Shaking my head at the error I’d made—I was pretty sure I could blame it on Cole’s unexpected visit—I corrected the mistake, printed off one copy, and then took it over to the photocopier.