Fatal Exposure - By Gail Barrett Page 0,27

what to do. We’ve tried counseling, but it hasn’t worked. We heard great things about your program and thought we’d check it out.”

“Of course.” Getting down to business, the director handed them each a set of glossy brochures. “This is a residential program for at-risk youth. The courses we run vary in length, from several months for the older teenagers to shorter sessions for younger kids. Our goal is simple, to help them understand the cause of their negative behaviors, such as their drug use or poor choice in friends.

“Our advantage here is the setting. Removing a child from her home environment forces her to adjust. We help her change in a good way, to learn positive coping skills she can apply to other areas of her life.”

Pretending to focus on the director’s spiel, Brynn flipped through the slick brochures. She had to appear attentive. She couldn’t give Mrs. Gibson any reason to scrutinize her and wonder where she’d seen her before.

The director continued talking, covering the importance of family involvement, the technology that enabled parents to follow their child’s progress at the camp online. Brynn wanted to dislike the camp, but in truth it sounded great. The director was intelligent and concerned. She looked and sounded sincere. And the program appeared top-notch.

“You say the children spend several months here?” Parker asked when she paused.

“The older ones do. It takes time for them to incorporate the lessons they learn. The setting speeds up the process, but change still doesn’t happen overnight. Our younger kids, the ten- to fourteen-year-olds, come for shorter lengths of time. We run those sessions throughout the year. The next one starts up in a couple of weeks.”

Mrs. Gibson handed them each another brochure. “Here you’ll find some sample schedules.”

Parker shifted forward, drawing Brynn’s gaze as the director launched into another speech. He sat with his forearms braced on his knees, his eyes locked on the director’s face as if hanging on every word. And a sudden wistfulness curled inside her, the desire to believe that he really cared.

She mentally rolled her eyes. Of course he didn’t care. This was an act, a ploy to get information about the camp.

But he’d worried about his brother. He’d tried to save Tommy’s life.

“Could we get references?” Parker asked. “I’d like to talk to some parents who’ve sent their kids here recently and find out what they think.”

“Certainly. We can provide you with a list of families who’ve given us permission to release their names. I’ll have the receptionist print that out. You’ll also find testimonials on our website and in the brochure.”

“I’d like to hear more about your activities,” Brynn cut in, determined to get to the point so they could leave. “Our niece is very artistic. Do you offer painting or jewelry design?”

“We do.” The director swiveled around, pulled a three-ring binder off a low shelf beneath the window and paged through. Then she handed the open binder to Brynn.

Parker leaned closer to see. Brynn struggled to ignore his nearness, the way his solid shoulder bumped against hers. Trying not to look affected, she thumbed through pictures of teens using a potter’s wheel, developing photographs in a darkroom and painting beside a stream.

When Mrs. Gibson launched into a discussion of outcome studies, Brynn passed Parker the notebook and sat back. So the camp offered art classes. That didn’t prove the necklace came from here. But neither did it rule it out.

Regardless, she needed more concrete information if she hoped to learn how Erin had died. She had to find out how often her stepfather came here, get a look at those cabin assignments—uncover something that could lead to a clue.

Her opportunity came a moment later when the receptionist knocked on the office door. “I’m so sorry to interrupt,” she said, directing her words to her boss. “May I speak to you for a moment?”

“Of course.” Her smile apologetic, Mrs. Gibson rose. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back. Feel free to look through the photos while I’m gone. I’ll get that list of names for you, too.” She left and closed the door.

“You have your cell phone?” Brynn asked Parker.

“Yeah.”

“Can you get a picture of that map and whiteboard?” She gestured toward the back wall. “I’m going to check the desk.”

Not waiting for an answer, she beelined to the corner file cabinet. She snuck a quick glance back, relieved to see Parker heading across the room. Then she flipped the photo over and shoved it behind the plant. Breathing