Exposure (23 page)

I usually crushed Ella, but this time she had the upper hand.

Shelton and Hi chatted excitedly, examining components and hashing out a game plan. Shelton inserted his flash drive into the closest USB port.

Unable to contribute, I concentrated on my letters. V V Q O C A L. Ugh.

I tried to get comfortable. It might be a
long
afternoon.

• • •

“Tory?” Shelton called.

My head jerked.

“Whaa?” More yawn than speech.

Not surprisingly, I’d drifted off. Lack of sleep was definitely taking a toll.

Hi pointed to one of the monitors. “We might have something.”

Groggily, I pulled my chair next to theirs. “Show me.”

“Using PhotoSpy, we were able to isolate the shadow on the ransom tape.” Hi maximized a window, revealing a grainy white outline on a black field. “We calculated its dimensions by using what we know of Lucy and Peter—since the twins appear in the same image, we can use their measurements to create a scale for quantifying the shadow.”

“That’s great, guys.”

“Not really,” Shelton said. “Unfortunately, we don’t know the distance between the cameraman and the light source. Without it, our scale is imperfect. What we
can
determine doesn’t tell us much—the cameraman is between five foot six and six foot eight and weighs one hundred to three hundred pounds.”

I gave him a flat look. “That’s practically useless.”

Shelton nodded. “We know. That’s not why I called you over.”

Hi pressed more keys. The steel bar with squiggly lines appeared onscreen.

“We had more luck with this,” Shelton said. “Check it out.”

He signaled Hi, who tapped a sequence of buttons. The image passed through a sequence of filters. Some made the scrawling loops sharper. Others made them impossible to see.

“The program ran hundreds of these,” Hi said. “We think this one’s a winner.”

Another keystroke. The image snapped into tight focus, the once-fuzzy lines resolved into letters. Something was definitely printed on the bar.

“So close,” I hissed, squinting and angling my head. “But still too small to read.”

Shelton nodded again. “We were about to zoom in, but I called you over first.”

“Do it.”

Hi pushed an arrow key. The image doubled in size, but lost clarity.

“Enhancing,” Hi intoned.

The image rippled, then snapped into focus. The lettering was clearer, but still illegible.

“Damn it,” I muttered. “Can we do that again?”

“Enhancing,” Hi repeated in a robotic cadence.

I glanced at him. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Same voice.

The process repeated. This time, we had something.

Four words ran vertically along the bar. I tipped my head sideways for a better look.

“Hold on.” Hi rotated the image so the letters ran left to right.

“Try reversing the ambient light,” Shelton suggested. “And tint the image a bit. Maybe take the background out altogether.”

More typing. Suddenly, the words leaped out at us, clear as day.

Ironwork of Philip Simmons.

Hi sat back. “Well, that sucks. Now we know who made the freaking bars.”

“No!” I spun excitedly. “This could be useful. The twins’ dungeon looks ancient, right? Certainly not built recently. We can research this—” eyes to the screen, “—Philip Simmons, and find out where he did business.”

“Which could lead to the cell’s location,” Shelton finished. “Or at least point to an area where the twins might be imprisoned. Tory, that’s brilliant.”

“Like I said,” Hi interrupted, “this is
huge.
”

I was about to say more when something on another screen caught my eye.

“What’s over there?” I pointed.

Shelton swiveled. “Oh, that’s nothing. We got an idea to watch the twins’ faces up close, and see if they mouthed anything to the camera. That’s what
I’d
do. But they didn’t.”

The screen was frozen on an extreme close-up of Peter Gable’s face.

Something about the picture disturbed me.

“Can you play it for me?” I asked.

“Sure.”

Shelton shut down the equipment we were using and moved to the other bank. Seconds later the video began rolling.

I watched Peter intently, unsure what was bugging me.

The clip ended. “Again, please.”

Shelton gave me a quizzical look, but reran the tape.

Halfway through the second showing, I had it.

“Peter’s eyes.” I circled a finger, signaling for another viewing. “They track the camera across the cell. But watch his
face.
Don’t you think that’s a weird expression?”

We watched a third time.

“Huh.” Hi stroked his cheek. “There
is
something strange. In his eyes.”

“Can you blame him?” Shelton said. “He’s staring at his kidnapper. I’m not sure there’s a standard-issue look for that scenario.”

“No.” I tapped a fist to my chin. “It’s
more
than that.”

Hi shifted in his seat. “What do you think—”

“Hold on. Shelton, one more time.”

As the clip rolled, my gaze bore into Peter, deconstructing him. The itch persisted.

Then, in a flash, I had it. My instincts screamed in unison.

“He knows the cameraman.”

“What?” Hi leaned closer to the screen. “How can you tell?”

“I just can.” Spoken with quiet certainty. “It’s in his eyes. Whoever Peter sees, he knows. I’d bet my life on it.”

Shelton reached for an earlobe. “So what does
that
mean?”

“It means we’d better learn more about the Gable family. Everything we can.”

I was about to say more when the doorknob rattled.

“Crap!” Hi scrambled for the keyboard. “Close out everything! Don’t save the files, or leave anything onscreen!”

Shelton and Hi raced about the room, frantically shutting down programs and equipment.

There was a jingle of keys.

“Tory!” Hi pointed to the main CPU. “Flash drive.”

I dove for the data stick, pocketing it a heartbeat before the door swung inward.

Hudson’s head popped into the booth.

“In here.” He wore a deep frown.

Hudson stepped inside, followed by Iglehart. Followed by Kit.

Oh fudge.

• • •

I tried to scramble, but Kit wasn’t buying what I was selling.

“We’ll discuss this when I get home,” was all he said.

Kit marched us down to the lobby, then had Hudson escort us to the dock.

LIRI privileges revoked, until further notice.

Hudson watched us depart, remaining on the dock until
Hugo
motored from sight.

“Well, that could’ve gone better,” Hi said. “Methinks your dad is a bit pissed off.”

“At least he didn’t tell
our
parents,” Shelton said. “That’s something, right?”

Hi dropped heavily onto the stern bench. “What’s our next move?”

I rubbed my forehead. The day had been a debacle.

In one solar rotation, I’d managed to upset Ben, Jason,
and
Kit.

Make way for Tory, gents!

“Next, I take a freaking nap.” I sighed. “I’ll use my brain again tomorrow. Maybe.”

We rode the rest of the way home in silence.

M
y nap was not to be.

Once again, Whitney blitzed me as I stepped into the house.

She had a plan. In fact, she was already squeezed into a skintight cocktail dress.

“It’s going to be wonderful!” she gushed. “I’ve already spoken to your father, and he’ll be home in thirty minutes. Go get ready!”

“You talked to Kit?” I asked cautiously. “Just now?”

“Yes, sugar. He agreed that our family
desperately
needs an evening on the town together. And this opening is at the Gibbes!”

I questioned the accuracy of Whitney’s reporting, but didn’t press the issue. Kit must’ve agreed to her proposal. Which meant I’d gotten a reprieve.

Reprieve? I’m going to a freaking art show with Whitney and Angry Kit.
No es bueno.

A thought occurred to me.
Why not?

“Is it okay if I invite someone to join us?”

Whitney’s mouth thinned. “Tory, dear, I don’t think any of those boys would enjoy—”

“I don’t mean the guys. I was thinking of my friend Ella. From school. She’s joining the Mag League, too.”

Whitney’s eyes widened. Then her face exploded with joy.

“Of
course
you may, sweetie. In fact, you simply must!”

• • •

Kit arrived home as I was dabbing on blush. My pulse spiked as he trooped upstairs.

Knock knock.

“Yes?”

Kit stuck his head in my room. “Art show.”

I nodded. “Ella’s coming. We play soccer together.”

Kit’s brow furrowed, but he shook it off. “Downstairs in ten. Tonight seems important to Whitney, so we’ll talk about this afternoon another time.”

He withdrew and closed the door.

“Wonderful.”

So Kit was keeping my LIRI excursion from Whitney.

And Whitney wasn’t telling Kit about my sneak-out the night before.

Blargh.

What a mess. Things were getting complicated. I felt a noose tightening around my neck.

Abruptly, I wondered what secrets
they
were keeping from
me
?

My mind arrowed back to Whitney’s casual statement a half hour ago.

That
our family
needed a night out. I shivered at the implications.

She
was
moving out again, right? As soon as her house was fixed?

Kit’s voice boomed up the stairwell. “Tory! Chop chop!”

I checked myself in the mirror. Black dress, strapless. Tasteful flats. Hair up. Light makeup. Was this how you dressed for an art show? I hadn’t the faintest, and using Whitney as a template could result in disaster. If there was a line, she usually pushed it.

“Come on, honey!” I could hear the bounce in Whitney’s voice.

With one last primp, I headed downstairs.

• • •

Ella met us on the front steps of the Gibbes Museum of Art.

She wore a hunter-green Christian Dior number that set off her eyes, and made her stand out from the black-clad crowd. But in a good way, like a centerpiece.

I felt gangly and awkward—a little girl playing dress-up—but Ella seemed totally at ease. Which helped
me
relax.

Ella aced introductions, charming Kit and positively delighting Whitney. When it came to schmooze, she was light-years ahead of me. Whitney nearly teared up, so happy to see me with a friend from the “approved” list. And a
girl
to boot.

The Gibbes Museum is a domed, white-columned monolith on Meeting Street, tucked away in the heart of Charleston’s historic district. Designed in a Beaux Arts style that was popular at the beginning of the twentieth century, the gallery first opened in 1905, and has been a fixture of the art world ever since.

The evening’s festivities were in the Alice Smith Gallery, the largest room on the museum’s first floor. A local sculptor had rented the space to display, and hopefully sell, his recent works.

Perhaps a hundred guests mingled among the dozen or so sculptures arrayed around the chamber. Tuxedoed waitstaff circled the room, silver trays balanced on white-gloved hands, offering an array of hors d’oeuvres. A string quartet played in one corner, beside a cash bar that was getting a lot of attention.

Ella elbowed my side. “Check out
that
guy.”

I followed her sightline to a man in the center of the room. He wore black skinny jeans and a ribbed white turtleneck.

And a beret. A
raspberry
beret.

“Oh my,” I whispered.

“If he’s not being ironic, I’ll pee myself.”

I snorted, then we both broke out in giggles. I was
so
thankful she’d agreed to come.

Thankfully, Whitney missed the exchange.

“Jean-Paul!” she squealed, waving for the man’s attention. “Everything looks lovely!”

Jean-Paul smiled smugly, every inch the stereotype of a self-important artist. He crossed to our group. “Welcome. So glad you could attend my moment.”

Introductions were made. I could sense Kit struggling for something to talk about.

Time to make my exit.

“We’re gonna do a lap,” I said quickly. “Bye.”

“Are you kidding me?” Ella said, once we’d scurried away from Kit, Whit, and The Moment. “Look at all these pretentious blowhards, sipping champagne and munching duck tartar. They’ll all pretend to know about art, but none actually do. This is going to be great!”

We worked our way around the room, scarfing the various offerings and critiquing both artwork and aficionados. Several of the pieces simply made no sense.

“What’s this one called?” Ella asked, chomping a crab cake.

I read the placard. “
Man’s Inhumanity to Man.
”

Ella smirked. “It’s a half-inflated balloon.”

“Attached to a six-foot fire hydrant,” I pointed out. “Painted gold.”