Page 2 of Total Exposure

“Yeah,” he says, looking me up and down. I haven’t been in here in a long time. Not since early fall when I purchased the very first recording of Anne Akiki Meyers. It was raining that day. An unusually cold day that kept people inside. So I was bundled up in a plastic slicker wearing an overly large hat that was dripping water on his decades-old industrial gray carpet. “But it’s a very… unusual collection. First and last recordings of child violin prodigies. I’ve never met anyone who collected those.”

“Well, maybe people are boring,” I say, forcing a small laugh. “I like to buck the trends.”

Dan stares at me for a few more seconds, considering my answer. “Right. But you’ve bought every modern-day female violin prodigy I can get my hands on.”

“That’s what most collectors do, Dan. We buy them all.”

“Except… you haven’t bought them all, have you, Angela?”

“I’m well on my way.”

“So let me guess who’s next on your list.”

“Evangeline Rolaine,” I say, beating him to the obvious answer. “I have her first. But if you can find the last recording of Ms. Rolaine, I’ll gladly take it off your hands.”

He eyes me for a moment, which is more thoughtful consideration than I can handle. But I resist the urge to check my scarf or fidget my feet. So I wait a few seconds and then say, “Can I see the record?”

Dan does a shrug with his hands, like he gives up, and then holds up one finger and says, “Be right back.”

I watch him make his way through the numerous shelves of books and stacks of vinyl records, but he doesn’t look back and I take that as a good sign.

He doesn’t know it’s me. He might guess, but that’s his business. I am not Evangeline Rolaine because she doesn’t exist anymore.

I busy myself looking at trinkets in the glass case as I listen for his returning footsteps. And that’s when my eyes rest upon a stack of cards near the old cash register.

“‘What are you afraid of?’” I say, reading the only sentence on the top card.

I pick it up and study the calligraphy. It’s bold and dark, rising up from the thick paper the way one might print up a fancy business card. But it’s square, the size of a drink coaster you might find in a fancy bar.

I turn it over in my hand and read the back.

Dr. Lucinda Chatwell, M.D., Ph.D., ABPN Board Certified.

And then in a very fancy script, in very tiny letters, it says, “We will conquer your fear together.” And a phone number.

“Here we go,” Dan says, so close he startles me. I push the card into my pocket and calm my racing heart as he makes his way around the counter and places the plastic-covered album on the glass. “Mei Ling Chao. Last live performance at age thirteen. 1959. Hong Kong.” He smiles at me as he carefully removes the record from the cover and says, “RCA Victor,” as he presents it for my inspection.

The picture of the dog with his ear to the phonograph makes me want to pee my pants with excitement. I actually laugh at that thought.

Which must surprise Dan, because he says, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Yes,” I breathe. “Wrap it up. And how much do I owe you?”

Dan adjusts his glasses and clears his throat. “Seven thousand and fifty-two dollars.”

“Wow,” I say. “She’s worth a lot.”

“She is. You still want it?” he asks. “I know I quoted you four and change. But you have no idea what I had to do to get my hands on this.”

“How did you get it?” I ask. I don’t usually talk so much when I come in, but I’ve been searching for this recording for… hell, since I was fifteen. Twelve years.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Dan whispers, leaning his elbows on the glass so he can get closer to me. “But a friend of a friend actually knows her.”

“Really?” I breathe.

“Yeah.” He nods, leaning in a little closer, like we’re sharing a secret. There’s no one in here, so it intrigues me enough to lean forward, getting as close to him as I’ve been to… well, anyone since I withdrew into my own world as a teenager. “She’s broke,” he says. “Living in a senior center somewhere in Oregon. She had this and a few others she was holding on to. But she sold it to him for six grand.” He leans back up like the secret is over. “Which is why I had to charge you seven plus.”

“Is she… ill?” I ask. I don’t give two flying fucks about the price of the recording. But her health…