Work was crazy after I returned to the office. I didn’t have a chance to look up Whitney and wound up having to eat cold Chinese food while in a meeting Mr. Monohan called to address an accusation Priority News was making against For the Record. Mr. Monohan assured all of us that Marjorie Strauss was in the stages of running her paper into the ground and this was her last ditch effort to bring us down with her. Apparently, her son and editor-in-chief, Oliver, ran a story about The Sentinel’s shady hiring practices. That resulted in a slew of letters—suspiciously anonymous—being submitted to For the Record about the nepotism that took place at Priority News a few months back and resulted in mass firing and exiting of employees. Monohan ensured us that he and Paul Weston, the owner of The Sentinel, will be publicizing the real story and bringing Marjorie and Oliver Strauss to their knees.

I found the entire meeting amusing with the way Nate, Aria, David, and Emily were cackling over the inevitable downfall of Priority News. I have no doubt the anonymous letters we received were written by them and some of their former coworkers at Priority News. According to Mr. Monohan, Marjorie Strauss fired the rest of the previous crew because she suspected their involvement in the letters. A few of the other staff writers, myself included, are a little worried about our jobs now that so many of Mr. Monohan’s former employees are looking for employment. David assured me I have nothing to worry about, but I can’t help wondering if chasing this story isn’t the best move for my career right now after all.

Still, I’m at my laptop at ten o’clock, looking up the schools in the area and searching the staff directories for Whitney. After checking both elementary schools and middle schools, I get to the high school directory. Since I can’t scan by last name, I have to scroll through each department list name by name. I’m about to give up, thinking she’s sent me on a wild goose chase, when I click on the art department, the only one I haven’t checked yet.

There she is. Whitney Stillwater. And not only does she teach art. She teaches advanced oil painting. I can’t tear my eyes from the screen. She’s an artist. She teaches other artists. No wonder she was so amazed by the mural. She knows good art when she sees it. But could she have recognized the painter’s techniques? Could it be one of her students? Is that why she looked at me that way when I questioned her being a teacher? Was she trying to keep me from asking more questions? And if so, why would she invite me to look her up? I’d think she’d try to protect the person if it was really one of her students.

Maybe I’m reading too much into this. Maybe Whitney isn’t involved at all. Her interest in the mural might be nothing more than that of an art lover. The question is, what is her interest in me?

* * *

As soon as I arrive at work Thursday morning, David announces there will be a meeting in the conference room immediately. I look to Cheryl, whose desk is next to mine. “Any idea what’s going on?” I ask.

“None,” she says. “I got here about two minutes before you. David hasn’t said anything specifically. None of the other departments seem fazed by it, so it must be a news story.” She grabs her tablet off her desk and starts for the conference room. Even though Cheryl is in her early thirties, she loves being a reporter. She told me she doesn’t want to move up the ranks to editor one day because she’d miss chasing stories. I have a feeling stories are most of her life. She’s a plain-looking woman, and I’ve never seen her wear any makeup. Her wardrobe looks almost identical from one day to the next. Charcoal slacks and a black sweater when it’s cold. Charcoal skirt and a black short-sleeved button down blouse when it’s hot. Office rumor is she got a discount for buying them in bulk.

I follow her into the conference room, noting most of the other staff writers are already seated around the long rectangular table. I take an empty seat by the window and look out, noticing the streets are as busy as usual today.

David walks into the room with a stack of papers and stands at the head of the table. “Another mural popped up overnight,” he says, cutting right to it.

“Where?” I ask, leaning forward and giving him my full attention.

“Downtown outside of Fitness World. This time it’s of runners and weightlifters,” he says. He hands the stack of papers to Mitchell and says, “Take one and pass the rest around.”

As soon as I get my copy, I see it’s a printout of a grainy photo. The wall next to Fitness World has a mural of people trying to get in shape. Right away I love it because these people aren’t the type you’d see in fitness ads. They aren’t in tip-top shape. The guy on the weight bench has a gut. The woman running has thick legs and some extra around the middle. Sure there are others in better physical shape, too. But I think the use of people who would benefit most from a gym membership is pure genius. I always thought images of perfectly fit people turn off the rest of the world who actually needs to get in shape. Showing people of all shapes, sizes, and fitness levels is reality.

“Any idea who painted it?” Cheryl asks, pulling my concentration from the photo.

“None,” David says.

“Two murals in one week,” I say. I knew there was a story here. My gut instinct was spot-on.

“I’d be happy to look into it,” Mitchell volunteers, raising his hand like we’re in a classroom.

David’s gaze meets mine. “Actually, this is Alex’s story.”

Mitchell’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t look my way. “Alex has never covered a story that’s potentially this big. Everyone’s going to be talking about these murals. My stories have made the front page of the print edition more than anyone else’s.”

David leans forward, his palms flush on the table. “First, that attitude is very reminiscent of Oliver Strauss. You know how I feel about him. So if you’re planning to keep score, you might as well go apply at Priority News, though I’d do it quickly since that paper is a sinking ship.”

The room gets eerily quiet. David’s never talked to any of us this way, and we can all tell he’s serious.

“Sorry, Alex,” Mitchell says, shocking the hell out of me. “I didn’t mean for it to come off that way.”

I’m not entirely convinced his words aren’t just meant to appease David, but I nod in acknowledgement.

“Alex saw this story days before any of us did,” David continues. “I say we give him a shot at it.”

Mitchell taps his pen against his notepad, clearly not happy to be off the story, but he doesn’t protest.

“If he needs help, Mitchell, you can pitch in and share the byline,” David adds before turning to the doorway. I follow his gaze to see Aria leaning against the doorframe. How long has she been standing there? “Is that okay with you?” David asks her.

She steps into the conference room and joins him at the head of the table. “I trust your judgment, and if Alex got the first lead on this, then he should take it.” She addresses me. “I’m confident you can pull this off. And I have a feeling there’s more than a simple news story here anyway. I want a profile on the artist and the message the murals are meant to send.”

“You got it,” I say.

She nods to me before leaving the conference room.

“Okay,” David says. “Alex has work to do. As for the rest of you, if you get wind of anything relating to this story, I want you to go to Alex immediately. Alex, give everyone your number so they can get in touch with you if anything comes up. I’m assuming you’ll be in the field instead of hanging out around here.”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

David stares at me for a moment, and I can’t help wondering if he’s questioning my ability to do this. He did tell Mitchell he could share the byline with me if I need help. Is that what he’s anticipating happening? David finally taps his hand against the table twice, his indicator that the meeting is over, and walks out of the room.

“Nice work,” Cheryl says. “I’m a little jealous.” She slides her printed photo to me. “Number?”

I scribble my number down for her, and the others have me do the same to their photos. Everyone files out except for Mitchell.

“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.