Since I Found You

by Ashelyn Drake

  “How do you want to do this?” he asks.

  Is he planning to jump right on board despite what David said? “I might have a lead. I’m going to look into it today. If it turns out to be a dead end, I’ll let you know and we’ll brainstorm together.”

  Mitchell nods, but I can see he’s disappointed. He walks out of the room without another word.

  After I found Whitney’s full name on the Priority High School website, I looked up her number. My best bet is to call her. She’s probably teaching a class right now, but I can at least leave a message and catch up with her later.

  As suspected, the call goes directly to voice mail. After the beep, I say, “Found you, Whitney Stillwater, art teacher at Priority High School. It’s Alex Wilkes in case you didn’t figure that out. I was hoping you’d be available for dinner tonight. My treat. I have something I want to talk to you about.” I rattle off my number before saying goodbye.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m standing in front of the new mural outside Fitness World. The manager, Arthur Ellison, is standing beside me, having agreed to be interviewed.

  “There’s a camera right above the mural. Didn’t it capture the artist’s image?” I ask, holding my phone between us to record the conversation.

  He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Unfortunately, no. The camera is positioned to cover the stairs leading to the entrance and the door. We don’t have any cameras aimed at this wall because it’s just a wall.” He says it like it’s common sense.

  “Did you speak with anyone recently about commissioning a mural or any other form of advertisement?” I ask.

  “I talked to the advertising manager at your paper about an ad in the print edition. Other than that, no.” The way he said “your paper” was almost accusatory. If he ever met Nate, he wouldn’t imply he’d have anything to do with this. The guy probably can’t draw a stick figure.

  “Are you planning to press charges if the police find out who did this?” I ask.

  Arthur crosses his arms, resting them on his potbelly. Do all gym managers have bellies? Most I’ve met do. “I don’t think so. I mean, there’s no such thing as bad publicity, right? I don’t think I even need to run that ad in your paper after this. The mural is going to be better advertising than anything else.”

  That’s what Bonnie Hershel thought, too. Is someone trying to help out local businesses by offering free advertisements? Could this really be a simple case of a good citizen trying to help others—albeit while breaking the law?

  “Is there anything else you can think of relating to this incident? Anything left behind by the artist?” Most artists sign their works, but there’s no signature on this mural. There wasn’t one at the boutique either.

  “Nothing. You’d think someone would take credit for it.” He shrugs. “Maybe they’ll come forth after a while.” He releases his arms, letting them fall to his sides. “Anything else? I really need to get back to work. We’re busier than usual today.”

  I hand him my card. “If you think of anything else, please call me.”

  He nods, pockets my card, and walks back into the building.

  I snap several more pictures, and then I just stare at the painting. Like the previous one, the paint is layered, creating texture. Every detail is so lifelike. Maybe the artist’s signature is in their technique. I can’t help thinking Arthur Ellison is right. Eventually, the person responsible is going to come forth. Who wouldn’t want the recognition? I have to find a way to make sure I’m the reporter this person chooses to come forward to. Except I have no idea how to do that.

  Chapter Six

  Whitney

  Elana and I walk to the back parking lot at the end of the school day. She’s quiet, which means she can only have one thing on her mind. The new mural. She was careful not to mention it during the school day since she knows I could lose my job over this. It’s all anyone is talking about, especially my students. I pass Noah and Becky at their lockers in the sophomore hallway.

  Noah raises a hand in the air to me. “See you tomorrow, Miss Stillwater.”

  When he doesn’t even acknowledge Elana, she says, “Yes, have a great night, Noah. Don’t forget about your geometry homework.”

  He mumbles something, and I’m sure it’s a good thing we don’t hear his reply.

  “Must you torment that poor boy?” I ask her as I return Noah’s wave.

  “He hates me just because he doesn’t like geometry.” She opens the door, and we step out into the bright sunlight.

  “Maybe if you were nicer to him and gave him credit for all the time he puts into studying, he’d...”

  “I can’t grade based on effort, Whit. You know that.”

  “Can’t you find him a tutor or let him do some extra credit?” I ask. “He’s a good kid.”

  “I guess extra credit is a good idea. It would give him more practice, too.”

  I smile and nudge her with my arm. “I knew you were a softy.”

  Her eyes go to the man standing by my car. “Um, I think you have a visitor.”

  Alex is leaning against my trunk, holding his car keys in his hand. As I approach, he says, “The darn keys don’t work again.”

  I smirk. “And you expect me to believe you thought you left your car in the school parking lot?”

  “Is this...?” Elana says, but instead of finishing her question, she takes Alex in from head to toe and nods.

  “So, I guess you’re a pretty good reporter since you managed to find me,” I say, stopping a few feet from him. I tip my head at Elana, who is standing next to me. “This is Elana, my best friend and coworker.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Alex says to her, but his eyes quickly return to me. “I tried calling you first, but I got your voice mail.”

  “Our phones have to be set to silent during the school day,” I say, even though I listened to his voice mail three times. The part about him wanting to talk to me about something made me a little nervous. I mean, I want him to continue writing about the murals, and he now knows I teach art. Has he put two and two together already? Am I ready to come forth and lose my job over this?

  “Are you two good?” Elana asks me. “Or do I need to stay and make sure this one behaves himself?” She jerks a thumb in Alex’s direction, which makes him laugh. He looks to me, waiting for an answer.

  “Hmm,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him. “I think I could take him. If nothing else, my heels can easily bring him down with one swift kick.” I lift my right foot so he can see the three-inch heel on my black pumps.

  “Ouch! Yeah, that would do it. In fact, I’m not sure I’d ever get back up.”

  Elana gives me a hug and whispers, “I like him, but be careful.” She doesn’t have to tell me about what.

  I nod before saying, “I’ll call you later.”

  “Nice meeting you,” she tells Alex before walking to her car.

  “So,” I say. “Now what?”

  “I was hoping I could take you to dinner. There’s a new restaurant that just opened on Main Street.”

  “Amor Amici,” I say. “It’s a gourmet pizza place, right?”

  He nods. “The food critic who writes for For the Record gave it a rave review, so I think it’s worth checking out.” He stands up straight, no longer leaning on my car. “What do you say?”

  “It’s a little early for dinner, don’t you think?”

  “I thought you might want to check out the latest mural first. Have you seen it yet?” His tone isn’t giving anything away, so I have no idea if he suspects me.

  “I’d love to go see it,” I say, figuring it will imply I haven’t yet without being a flat-out lie.

  “Great. Do you want to drive separately, or would you like to come with me?” he asks.

  I look around for his car but don’t see it. “Where are you parked?”

  “The visitor lot in the front of the building.”

  I laugh. “What did you do? Walk around until you found your car’s lookal
ike?”

  He bobs one shoulder and gives me a half smile. “Shall we?” He offers his arm.

  “Let me put my bag in my car first.” I grab my keys from the front zipper pocket on my shoulder bag and open my trunk. I realize a minute too late what I’ve done. I quickly slip my bag inside, hoping he didn’t notice the paints still in the trunk, and shut it. “Ready.”

  He either has a great poker face or he didn’t see the paints, because he offers me his arm again.

  “So, how did you get off work so early today?” I ask him as we walk around the building. We pass a few of my students in the student parking lot, and they wave to me and whistle when they see me with Alex.

  “Sorry,” Alex says. “I didn’t even think about how my presence might affect your students.”

  I squeeze his arm. “It’s fine. It’s high school. Those kids won’t focus on me and what I’m doing for very long. They have plenty of drama of their own to deal with.”

  He laughs. “Yeah, I remember what high school was like. Seems like a lifetime ago, though.”

  “Crazy how quickly that happens, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely. My ten-year reunion is less than two years away.”

  So he is my age. “Same here,” I say. “You’re not from here, though.”

  “No, I grew up in Pennsylvania. I only moved to New Jersey after I finished college.” He steps up to the passenger side door of his car and opens it for me.

  “Thank you,” I say before slipping into the seat. He’s a gentleman on top of his other good qualities. I watch him walk around the front of the car and get in. “Are you writing another piece on the murals that keep popping up?” I ask once he starts the car and is backing out of the spot.

  “Already did. It’s up on the site as we speak.”

  “That was fast.”

  “Kind of comes with the territory of news stories.” He flashes me a smile as he pulls out of the parking lot and onto the road.

  “Any leads?” I ask, fiddling with the ring on my right pinky. It’s my birthstone. My mother gave it to me when I was ten, and I’ve worn it ever since.

  “Common opinion is that the artist will come forward. I was hoping for your help, though.”

  I freeze. He’s a better reporter than I gave him credit for.

  “You’re an art teacher, so I take it you’re an artist, too.”

  “Good assumption,” I say, waiting for him to clue me in on how he discovered I painted the murals.

  “I was hoping if you saw the new mural and compared it to the last one, maybe you’d be able to tell me more about this artist. What to look for.”

  Is he setting me up? I can’t figure out if he genuinely doesn’t know it’s me and wants my help or if he’s playing with me, seeing if I’ll own up to it. “What exactly are you looking for me to tell you, Alex? The kind of brush strokes used? Whether the person is new to painting or has been at it for years?” If he wants to be cryptic, I can be, too.

  “Anything you can tell me would be great.” He pulls onto Main Street and parks near Amor Amici since there are no spots near Fitness World. I have to suppress a smile at that. My work has never drawn crowds like this before. He cuts the engine and shifts in his seat to face me. “To be completely honest, my reputation at the paper is riding on this story.”

  “How so?” I ask.

  “When I found out about the first mural, I didn’t think much of it. But then I saw the painting and...” He shakes his head. “I don’t know how to explain it. The mural spoke to me, and art’s never had that effect on me before. I can’t really describe it, but I knew there was a bigger story there. The murals are helping businesses in Priority, but I don’t think that’s the only message they’re meant to convey. They’re making people talk, and I think that’s the point.”

  He gets it. I swallow the lump in my throat, moved that a non-art lover would understand what I’m trying to do here. “I think you’re right,” I say.

  “You do?” He smiles. “Then will you help me? I want to find this artist. Find them and let them tell me their story. He or she deserves to be heard.” He looks past me out the window at the mural. “I really want to meet this person.”

  He has no idea he already has. I’m relieved but feeling completely guilty at the same time. Alex seems like such a sweet guy, but I don’t know him well enough to confide in him. Not yet at least.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  “Let’s do it.” I open my door and step out onto the sidewalk. Alex joins me, and we walk toward Fitness World. Since the location is in the heart of town, people are gathered around it or at the very least pausing as they walk by. “Wow,” I say, in awe of the attention the mural is getting.

  “I know. It’s brilliant. So true to life, much like the last one,” Alex says.

  We move through the crowd for a closer look. I step close enough to touch the wall. There on the blonde woman I painted running on the treadmill is my signature flourish. I signed both murals but in a way that no one but me would notice. I hope. Her tank top has an emblem on the bottom right edge. It probably looks like a brand logo to anyone else who sees it, but S is actually for my last name. It appears on the mural at the boutique, too, hidden in the center of a flower.

  “See anything useful?” Alex asks me, stepping so close our shoulders touch.

  Should I tell him? If I don’t, I’m intentionally deceiving him—although, I suppose I’m doing that anyway by not confessing. I touch the painting where the S is. “This looks interesting.”

  He leans forward, squinting at the mark. “Do you think the artist is advertising for Saucony?” he asks.

  I should’ve known that’s what he’d think. My initial is the same as the popular brand name’s. “I’m pretty sure it’s different.” I bob my shoulder, which bumps his. “You’re the reporter, though.”

  “Ah, but you’re the artist, so that makes you the expert here.”

  What can I tell him that’s helpful but not too helpful? “I’d look into the Saucony label. See if it matches. Most artists sign their work. I doubt this one is any different.”

  “You think it’s a signature?” he asks, raising a finger to touch the S.

  “It very well might be.” My stomach growls, and I realize we’ve been admiring the mural for a good half hour. “I know it’s early for dinner, but would you like to get a drink first? I heard Amor Amici has amazing peach sangria.”

  “Sure. I didn’t realize we’d been standing here this long,” he says, looking at his watch.

  We start walking toward the restaurant, which is only about three hundred feet away. The hostess seats us at a table near the large brick pizza oven. The warmth coming from it feels good after standing in the chilly fall weather. We order a pitcher of sangria to start since it’s still a little early for dinner.

  “So, what angle are you pursuing with these murals?” I ask.

  “Like I said, I want to know the message the artist is trying to convey. I feel like he or she wants us to see something about ourselves that we’re missing.” He laughs. “The problem is, I’m still missing it.”

  I sip my drink. “This is good.”

  He nods but isn’t swayed from the topic. “If more murals keep popping up, this story could get huge and attract a lot of media attention.”

  I sit forward in my seat. “You think so?”

  “Yeah, but like your students, people are quick to move on to other things. Another mural would have to pop up soon, like overnight. And it would need to be in another high traffic area.”

  He’s right. I can’t let people forget about this. And that means I need to create another mural. Most likely tonight.

  Chapter Seven

  Alex

  Once we order our food, two different gourmet pizzas to share—a vegetarian pizza and a meat lovers, the best of both worlds—we move the conversation to other things. I feel bad talking about my job so much and don’t really want the date to be all about me. Nothing ruins the
chances of a second date more than being self-centered.

  “How long have you been teaching?” I ask her.

  “Since I graduated, so four years now.”

  “What made you become a teacher instead of an artist?” I realize that might sound judgmental or imply she’s not a good enough artist to have made it in that world. “I mean, I know it’s incredibly difficult to be an artist of any kind. The work they do is phenomenal, but most people aren’t cultured enough to fully grasp it.” God, I’m rambling.

  She smiles. “Relax, Alex. I love teaching, and it’s actually what I wanted to do. Painting has always been a part of who I am. I don’t think of it as a career, though. It’s just...”

  “You,” I say, understanding exactly what she means.

  “Yeah.” She cocks her head at me. “For someone who claims he’s never been an art lover, you certainly understand the artist mindset. How is that?”

  I’m not sure why she keeps turning the conversation back on me. Is she one of those people who isn’t comfortable talking about herself?

  “Maybe I’m an artist with no talent,” I say with a smirk.

  “I’m not sure that’s a thing,” she says, laughing in the most adorable way. Her foot brushes against mine under the table.

  “Okay, maybe I was an artist in a previous life then.”

  “You believe in that?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “No, I’m not even sure why I said that. You must make me nervous.” I smile to show that while it might be true, I’m okay with it.

  “I’ll admit you make me nervous, too.”

  “Is that why you keep directing the conversation back to me?” I ask.

  “I suppose.” She blushes—or maybe all the sangria we drank is making her cheeks rosy. Her phone chimes, and she retrieves it from her purse. “Oh, wow. I didn’t realize we’ve been here for hours.”

  “Really?” I glance at my watch. 6:30. “We have.”