stiffens. I watch his expression change.
“I just want to know,” I say, attempting to cut off his inevitable protest. “I just want to see them. I promise I won’t say anything.”
Josh sighs, then looks down at me skeptically.
I try for earnest. “Soul of discretion.”
Josh points across the room, defeated. “You see Dorothy? Just coming out of the other room. Holding what looks like scotch. That’s Alethia Espinosa with her. Dean of girls.”
“Are they sisters?” I ask. “They’re like fluttery little wrens.”
“Hardly. Like I said, don’t get in their way,” Josh replies. He puts down his brandy. “And Dorothy has a real sister, who lives with her.”
I feel a touch on my elbow.
“Miss McNally, I have some members of our Bexter family you must meet.” The Head has two more men in copycat blazers in his wake, both half a step behind him. Their posture verges on obsequious.
“May I present Harrison Ebling, our new development consultant, and our bursar, Aaron Pratt.”
The moneymen. The fundraisers. I almost smile. They think I’m making the big reporter bucks and are gunning to put the hit on me for a donation. But this may be a plus.Josh had told me the bursar knew about the calls. Maybe this development person does, too. I plot strategy, wishing for my notebook.
“How nice to meet you,” I say. “We’re so eager for Penny to start next semester. How long have each of you been with Bexter?”
Josh’s foot goes on top of mine. And it’s not a mistake.
I move my boot away, resisting the urge to add a tiny kick indicating I’m just delicately probing, and keep my eyes charmingly fixed on the two newcomers. “And do tell me what you’re each working on. I’m so eager to learn everything about my new Bexter family.”
It’s a private school. But I bet nothing stays private for long.
Chapter Five
“J ust look at me, not at the camera.” I smile encouragingly at Declan Ross. We’re in his living room, sitting knee to knee on the spindle-backed chairs Franklin and I moved out of the dining room and placed in front of the fireplace.
I knew today’s interview would make our story. Put a real face on the problem. When I called from Channel 3 earlier this morning, giving the accident victim the tried-and-true “it could help other people” tactic, he’d agreed. Happily, this time it’s actually true.
“Rolling,” J.T. says. “I have speed.”
Franklin, notebook in hand and sitting out of camera range on a flame-stitch sectional couch, performs an over-dramatic cough, complete with eye-rolling. “I have speed” is movie jargon, because film cameras have to rev up before you can start shooting. Our video camera is at the proper speed instantly. J.T. just says it to sound hip and Hollywood. Franklin isn’t going to let him get away with it.
I throw him a cool-it look and turn to Declan Ross.
“So, Mr. Ross,” I begin. I adjust the skirt of my new and somewhat risky aubergine wool suit. “How did you feel when you got the recall letter, saying your car’s brakes could fail, and that most likely, a failure would happen at high speed?”
“How can carmakers get away with it?” Ross says. He holds out both hands, supplicant, illustrating the depth ofhis concern. “They manufactured vehicles that were defective. Thousands of them. They should never have left the factory. I could have been killed. My family could have been killed. It’s a nightmare, not just for me, but for every driver on the road. I’m enraged.”
I pause for a beat or two. Truth is, we’re done. In thirty seconds, Mr. Ross has given me all we need: anger, disdain, fear for his own family and outrage for others. We could take down all our equipment and walk out of here right now. I glance at Franklin again. We don’t need to exchange a word. He shrugs, smiling, then rolls a finger, pantomiming, “It’s a wrap.”
But suddenly I’m not sure.
“Couple more questions,” I say. It’s
“I just want to know,” I say, attempting to cut off his inevitable protest. “I just want to see them. I promise I won’t say anything.”
Josh sighs, then looks down at me skeptically.
I try for earnest. “Soul of discretion.”
Josh points across the room, defeated. “You see Dorothy? Just coming out of the other room. Holding what looks like scotch. That’s Alethia Espinosa with her. Dean of girls.”
“Are they sisters?” I ask. “They’re like fluttery little wrens.”
“Hardly. Like I said, don’t get in their way,” Josh replies. He puts down his brandy. “And Dorothy has a real sister, who lives with her.”
I feel a touch on my elbow.
“Miss McNally, I have some members of our Bexter family you must meet.” The Head has two more men in copycat blazers in his wake, both half a step behind him. Their posture verges on obsequious.
“May I present Harrison Ebling, our new development consultant, and our bursar, Aaron Pratt.”
The moneymen. The fundraisers. I almost smile. They think I’m making the big reporter bucks and are gunning to put the hit on me for a donation. But this may be a plus.Josh had told me the bursar knew about the calls. Maybe this development person does, too. I plot strategy, wishing for my notebook.
“How nice to meet you,” I say. “We’re so eager for Penny to start next semester. How long have each of you been with Bexter?”
Josh’s foot goes on top of mine. And it’s not a mistake.
I move my boot away, resisting the urge to add a tiny kick indicating I’m just delicately probing, and keep my eyes charmingly fixed on the two newcomers. “And do tell me what you’re each working on. I’m so eager to learn everything about my new Bexter family.”
It’s a private school. But I bet nothing stays private for long.
Chapter Five
“J ust look at me, not at the camera.” I smile encouragingly at Declan Ross. We’re in his living room, sitting knee to knee on the spindle-backed chairs Franklin and I moved out of the dining room and placed in front of the fireplace.
I knew today’s interview would make our story. Put a real face on the problem. When I called from Channel 3 earlier this morning, giving the accident victim the tried-and-true “it could help other people” tactic, he’d agreed. Happily, this time it’s actually true.
“Rolling,” J.T. says. “I have speed.”
Franklin, notebook in hand and sitting out of camera range on a flame-stitch sectional couch, performs an over-dramatic cough, complete with eye-rolling. “I have speed” is movie jargon, because film cameras have to rev up before you can start shooting. Our video camera is at the proper speed instantly. J.T. just says it to sound hip and Hollywood. Franklin isn’t going to let him get away with it.
I throw him a cool-it look and turn to Declan Ross.
“So, Mr. Ross,” I begin. I adjust the skirt of my new and somewhat risky aubergine wool suit. “How did you feel when you got the recall letter, saying your car’s brakes could fail, and that most likely, a failure would happen at high speed?”
“How can carmakers get away with it?” Ross says. He holds out both hands, supplicant, illustrating the depth ofhis concern. “They manufactured vehicles that were defective. Thousands of them. They should never have left the factory. I could have been killed. My family could have been killed. It’s a nightmare, not just for me, but for every driver on the road. I’m enraged.”
I pause for a beat or two. Truth is, we’re done. In thirty seconds, Mr. Ross has given me all we need: anger, disdain, fear for his own family and outrage for others. We could take down all our equipment and walk out of here right now. I glance at Franklin again. We don’t need to exchange a word. He shrugs, smiling, then rolls a finger, pantomiming, “It’s a wrap.”
But suddenly I’m not sure.
“Couple more questions,” I say. It’s
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