Exposure (9 page)

Ben slipped off his shades to reveal normal brown irises. “Happy, grandma?”

He tossed a mocking wave at the tourists as they strolled past.

“No,” I said, once the couple was out of earshot. “I’m pretty damn far from happy.” Then, with a monumental effort, I moderated my tone. “You’re playing with fire, Ben. And if you screw up, we
all
get burned.”

“I’m not a child, Victoria.” Replacing his Ray-Bans, Ben strode away up the block.

“Well,
that
wasn’t great,” Hi said dryly. “But at least you two are talking now, right?”

“I can’t handle all this tension,” Shelton moaned. “Too much fighting.”

Hi nodded, watching as Ben disappeared down a side street. “We need to work on our conflict management. Maybe attend a seminar.”

“Ben’s going all flare crazy,” Shelton muttered. “Hi’s burglarizing the DA’s office. Nobody’s
talking
about anything. Things are getting out of hand.”

My palms came up. “What can we do? Ben’s impossible.”

Shelton surprised me by jabbing a finger in my face. “You do nothing but look daggers at him, when you bother to acknowledge his presence at all. How’s he supposed to act? When are you gonna get over this, so we can move on?”

“When Ben creates a time machine,” I shot back. “And undoes what he did!”

Dumb words, but I didn’t care. I was seething.

“Ben’s been flaring a lot lately,” Hi said quietly. “Every day, I think. I wonder if he’s just chasing the rush.”

Those alarm bells became blaring sirens.

Ben seemed totally different. I’d assumed it was stress from the trial, but now I worried it was something else. A more disturbing possibility.

I knew our powers were becoming unsteady. I’d felt the tremors myself.

But had they also become addictive? Or destructive?

Ben was flaring often, even in public. Could
that
be changing his personality?

Or could Ben’s overindulgence be causing the problems in the first place?

What have we gotten ourselves into?

Shelton checked his watch. “We’d better move. The headmaster wants us back by lunch, and we’re cutting it close.”

“Fine.” What more was there to say?

I walked the last few blocks in a fog, my mind sifting unpleasant possibilities. Considering dire scenarios. The chronic problem of our viral transformation suddenly seemed urgent. We’d put off seeking answers for too long.

We
had
to learn more about the experiment that changed us.

Which meant, we
had
to get into Karsten’s flash drive. But how?

Thoughts wandering, it took me several moments to notice a feeling I’d been ignoring.

The odd sensation had returned. That itch I couldn’t scratch.

Two days in a row. It’s happening more often.

As soon as I recognized the vibe, it began to dissipate.

Concentrating, I struggled to capture its essence. Felt a
closeness
I’d not noticed before. As though my mind were trying to connect with something outside my body.

But how? I’m not flaring.

Then, like a sigh escaping, the moment passed. I nearly ground my teeth in frustration. Another opportunity to learn something—
anything
—had slipped through my fingers.

With my mind a thousand miles away, I didn’t see the land mine right in front of me.

Hi grabbed my arm. I glanced up, startled to see Bolton’s wrought-iron gates.

And more surprised to see Chance Claybourne standing between them.

My stomach backflipped.

Some reactions are purely involuntary.

Chance was exiting the grounds, a dog-eared folder tucked under one arm. He wore a hand-tailored black suit, crisp white shirt, silver tie, red argyle socks, and black patent-leather shoes. The outfit oozed casual expense.

He paused mid-stride, chiseled face unreadable.

Chance seemed carved from shadows, with dusky skin and deep, dark eyes. He had a swimmer’s build—tall and slender, yet wiry strong, with lustrous black hair framing a perfect chin. His every move was graceful.

Chance was, hands down, the best-looking person I’d ever met in real life.

“What are you doing here?” I blurted.

“Manners, Victoria.” Chance
tut
-
tutt
ed. “And here I thought we were old friends.”

I cleared my throat, buying time to pull my thoughts together. Finally, “I didn’t expect to see you at Bolton. After you graduated, I mean.”

“I didn’t expect to be here again,” he replied airily. “But apparently my employer needs a transcript for my file.”

An eyebrow rose. “Your employer?”

“Candela Pharmaceuticals. I’ve been named to the board.” Chance casually plucked a fallen leaf from his sleeve. “Not all that surprising, since I
do
own most of the company.”

I stiffened. Candela triggered bad memories.

“They put
you
in charge?” Hi snorted. “Remind me to sell my stock.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Hiram.”

“How can an eighteen-year-old run a major corporation?” Shelton said. “You were still in high school, like, five minutes ago.”

“It’s not a one-man show,” Chance said dryly. “I’ve been tasked with running a small division focusing on special projects. The rest of Candela’s leadership stays the same.”

“Special projects,” I repeated. Felt a chill.

“Research and development, mainly.” Chance stepped onto the tree-lined sidewalk. “I’ll get to play around a little. Crack a few eggs, so to speak.”

My voice raised an octave. “What does that mean?”

Chance’s face was unreadable. “It
means,
I’ll be able to work on whatever I want. Get some answers I’ve been seeking.”

“How dramatic.” Hi tapped his head. “You wanna make a difference? Create a deodorant that doesn’t suck. The brand I use leaves pit stains on all my undershirts.”

“I’ll pass.” Chance’s hair dancing rakishly in the light ocean breeze. “My interests are a touch more exotic.”

His eyes found mine. I looked away.

Chance’s past accusations flashed through my mind.

“I have to go,” he said abruptly. “Maybe I’ll see you soon.”

He walked past without another word.

I watched his form recede down the block. Chance never glanced back.

“That guy ain’t right,” Shelton whispered. “But at least he’s out of our hair now.”

“Yeah.”

But I had a sinking feeling.

Special projects.

Cracking eggs.

Answers.

For some reason, I felt like Chance had threatened me.

C
hance dropped the battered file on his desk.

He’d studied its contents a hundred times. The hundred-and-first reading had revealed nothing new.

Bong. Bong.

A grandfather clock chimed 2:00 p.m. Chance could barely make out the stately timepiece, tucked as it was in the far corner of his father’s private study.

My study, rather.

He still hadn’t gotten use to that.

Long shadows crisscrossed the wood-paneled walls and expensive Persian rugs. He meant to install more lights, but never got around to it.

Chance spun his chair to face giant floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the estate’s inner yard. Below, a landscaper was carefully sculpting a wall of the hedge maze. Chance didn’t know the man’s name. Claybourne Manor had dozens of gardeners.

Once more, Tory Brennan crashed his thoughts.

Maddening.

He was no closer now than on the day he’d first discovered the information.

No closer, but out of ideas.

And time, perhaps.

Frustrated, Chance swiveled back to his desk. Lifted the folder once more. Eyed the red block lettering stamped on its face:

CANDELA PHARMACEUTICALS

DR. MARCUS KARSTEN—RESEARCH NOTES

TOP SECRET. PROPRIETARY R&D

He’d found five more folders identical to this one. A hidden cache, locked away in his father’s private cabinet. Another secret among the many Hollis Claybourne had kept.

His father never mentioned this project. Not once.

Chance grinned sourly.

The Old Man hadn’t shared much before getting hauled off to prison.

Chance opened a desk drawer. Placed the file inside with the others.

He was obsessed. And knew it. But recognition made no difference. He could more easily hold back the tides than abandon this endeavor.

Tory Brennan.

So many emotions, derived from a single name.

The girl was nothing. A transplant science geek from the barrier-island sticks. Still a sophomore in high school. She didn’t come from wealth, or have an influential family name. It was borderline miraculous that he was aware of her existence at all.

But he was. In fact, he noticed
everything
about her.

Chance leaned back and closed his eyes.

Inevitably, his mind began picking at the memories he’d been counseled not to trust.

Tory and her Morris Island friends, in the darkness of his basement. Moving way too fast, eyes glowing unnaturally bright.

Those same four, darting like arrows across a pitch-black beach. Same unnatural speed. Same blazing irises.

He’d thought himself crazy. His doctors had agreed. Together they’d painstakingly constructed a new reality—a
rational
one—where Chance hadn’t seen those things at all.

Then it happened
again.

The debutante ball.

He hadn’t witnessed the last event firsthand—Tory had seen to that—but those outcasts had accomplished the unthinkable. A feat of strength beyond anything remotely reasonable.

It. Was. Not. Possible.

Third time’s a charm.

His tortured laugh echoed in the cavernous chamber.

Chance’s gaze dropped to the drawer. He tapped the handle with an index finger.

These folders hold the key.

He didn’t know how. Didn’t understand why. But Chance was certain.

Karsten’s records would solve the riddle of Tory Brennan and her sidekicks. The answers he sought lurked somewhere inside those reports.

Chance yanked the drawer open again. Slapped a new file onto his desk.

He paused a moment, shaking his head at the part of the story he knew.

A hidden lab. Secret tests. Corporate espionage. Payoffs and payouts.

His father had ordered an illegal medical experiment, off the books, bankrolled by an untraceable shell corporation using Candela funds. The harebrained scheme violated dozens of laws and regulations. It was both a criminal and fireable offense.

The arrogance of it boggled Chance’s mind.

Thankfully, his father had been careful. Chance had checked for records thoroughly, spending hours sifting through boxes at Candela’s file storage warehouse, and even more time combing the database. He was satisfied no other documents existed.

No one would learn of Karsten’s work.

No one but me.

It’d taken Chance months just to comprehend what he was reading.

At first, the connections were hidden. Even with a mole at LIRI feeding him intel, Chance had learned little of use. Dr. Mike Iglehart was a major disappointment. The secret link to Loggerhead Island hadn’t borne much fruit.

But then he’d found it.

Chance flipped to back of the file. Selected a computer printout.

The bridge had been there all along. He just hadn’t seen it.

Page sixty-four. Third paragraph. Second line. Twenty-five words.

Subject A for Parvovirus XPB-19 is a wild canine hybrid captured on Loggerhead Island, the offspring of a female gray wolf and male German shepherd.

In other words, a wolfdog.

So simple. Yet he’d missed it repeatedly.

“Cooper,” Chance whispered. Tory’s too-smart mongrel was the key.

Though, admittedly, Chance
still
hadn’t put it together at that point.

Karsten had used Coop as a parvovirus test subject. So what? The dog had clearly recovered and survived. Perhaps Tory had adopted him afterward. What difference did it make?

But Chance had held tenaciously to his theory. And his diligence paid off.

He’d simply needed to find the other pieces.

Chance removed a third file from the drawer and placed it beside the other.

Paging to the middle, he found the crucial line. He’d only apprehended its significance that morning.

Bottom margin. Handwritten. So easily overlooked.

The highest caution must be employed. Due to its radical structure, Parvovirus strain XPB-19 may be infectious to humans.

There.

There there there.

A connection. One that might explain
everything.

What he’d seen. What he’d experienced with those Morris Island weirdoes.