Secrets in the Open

“Some men hide their intentions in silence. Others hide them in plain sight.” — Violet Dallow

The shrill blast of a whistle cut through the camp, pulling the girls from their unpacking. “Orientation!” someone called, and soon the narrow paths between the cabins filled with girls converging on the central clearing. The air buzzed with chatter and the squeak of canvas shoes on dry earth.

Violet fell into step with her friends, her rucksack left behind, the dust rising in little puffs around her ankles as they moved. The excitement was palpable — girls linking arms, laughing, nudging one another with mock conspiratorial glee about who would sneak sweets, who would fall in the creek first.

Michelle leaned close, her dark hair swinging forward as she bent to whisper in Violet’s ear. “What’s he doing here?” Her chin tilted subtly toward the edge of the clearing.

Violet followed her gaze — and there he was. Mr Clarke. Clipboard tucked beneath one arm, his lean frame set apart from the khaki-uniformed female leaders. He stood a little removed, speaking quietly to Mrs Thompson, but even from a distance there was a sharpness in his posture, an intensity that didn’t belong to this bright, carefree gathering.

Before Violet could answer, Mandy piped up, keeping her voice casual, almost dismissive. “Dad sent him along. Said it was good to have a male teacher around, someone responsible.” She gave a half-shrug, as though it were of no consequence.

Violet’s stomach dropped. Her dad. Detective Glasson. And the words in his notebook — Ryan Clarke will handle it. The phrase seared itself across her mind like a brand. Her pulse skipped, her throat tightening as though the air had thickened. She forced her features into a neutral mask, unwilling to betray the storm inside her.

“Lucky us,” Michelle muttered under her breath, her tone light but edged with scepticism.

They joined the gathering crowd in the main clearing. A cluster of gum trees cast mottled shade across the open space, where a makeshift platform of old railway sleepers served as a stage. Mrs Thompson mounted it with brisk authority, her voice carrying easily. She spoke of timetables and duty rosters, of fire safety and buddy systems, her tone both firm and encouraging.

Violet tried to listen, but her eyes kept sliding back to Mr Clarke. He lingered just behind Mrs Thompson, hands clasped loosely behind his back, his expression unreadable. To anyone else he was the picture of professionalism — a teacher lending his authority to a camp. But Violet saw the small things: the way his gaze swept the crowd of girls with too much deliberation, lingering a second too long on the younger Guides; the flicker of irritation when one leader touched his elbow to ask a question; the faint smile that didn’t touch his eyes when he finally let his gaze settle on her.

Her stomach tightened.

The introductions moved on. Leaders gave their names, jokes were shared to lighten the atmosphere. Then Mr Clarke stepped forward, summoned by Mrs Thompson with an easy gesture.

“Some of you will know Mr Clarke already from school,” she said, her voice bright. “He’s kindly agreed to assist us for the week — helping with activities, a bit of history about Silverton, and, of course, keeping everyone on their best behaviour.” A ripple of polite laughter spread through the girls.

Mr Clarke smiled, a thin, practised expression. “I’ll try not to bore you too much,” he said lightly, his voice carrying that same wry tone he used in class. A few girls giggled, nudging one another. He continued, his gaze skimming the crowd. “Silverton is a place with a fascinating past. Ghost towns, old mines, stories passed down through generations. While you’re here, you’ll be making your own memories — but I’ll be reminding you of the ones that came before.”

The words seemed innocuous, even inspiring, but Violet felt them like a blade. Reminding you of the ones that came before. Sally Harlow. The missing. The maps, the notes, the web of names and red thread.

Mr Clarke’s gaze found hers then, pinning her where she stood. To anyone else it was a casual sweep of the crowd, the eye contact of a teacher with a familiar student. But to Violet it was deliberate, a silent exchange loaded with implication.

“You’ll find Silverton is full of secrets,” Mr Clarke said, the corner of his mouth twitching as though he’d made a private joke. “Some best left buried. But perhaps a few still worth uncovering.”

Laughter rippled again through the group, but Violet barely heard it. Her skin prickled, heat rushing to her face. He was speaking to all of them — but the weight of his words pressed solely on her.

Mandy elbowed her playfully, oblivious. “See? He’s harmless,” she whispered. “Dad was right — good to have him here.”

But Violet couldn’t shake the sense that his presence was anything but harmless.