The Lies I Told(24)

He took another sip, making me aware I was still holding a nearly full bottle. “Those moments you capture can’t all be good.”

“Not always pretty but very powerful.”

“And the moment from today’s wedding?”

“There was a second before they got in the car. They both looked back up at the courthouse steps. I snapped and caught their joy and sadness.”

“Sadness?”

“They’d eloped. Decided not to tell the family. Probably felt like a small omission at the time, but they’d just realized how big a decision it had been.”

“My ex and I eloped. There was real hell to pay.” He took a long sip of beer, then tipped his beer bottle toward me. “How does someone start a business like that?”

“I’ve always loved photography. So did my sister. We set about teaching ourselves the basics. Fast-forward a few years, I offered to be a second shooter at events for free just to get the experience. Word got around about my photos, and I got my own gigs. I’ve been at it full time for seven years now.” I rarely talked about myself and found it rather unpleasant. “I chase brides, and you chase criminals.”

“Technically, they’ve already been caught by the time I come on scene. My job is to keep them off the street.”

“Which brings us back to decomposition rates.”

“Last night you ordered two shots of tequila. Why two?”

More talk about me, which I should have avoided, but I heard myself say, “I was born an identical twin. Clare, the sister I just mentioned, died when we were sixteen. I always pour two shots on our birthday.”

“But you didn’t drink it.”

“If Clare can’t drink, then neither will I.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “About your sister.”

“Thanks.” Mercifully his follow-up wasn’t She’s in a better place or whatever platitudes made people feel better about my loss.

Alan’s direct gaze told me he wasn’t afraid of death. He had the good sense not to ask for details, which put points in his column. Too many dug for the minutiae, especially when Clare’s case was so public. There was a sense that Clare’s death was part of the public domain, entitling everyone to all the facts.

“Okay, now that we’ve covered death,” I said, my lips trying to twist into a smile. “We might want to quit while we’re ahead.”

“I’m off my game,” he said. “Work has dulled my social skills. Normally, I don’t lead with death. I begin with the weather, zodiac signs, and favorite wines before launching into the macabre.”

“I appreciate the direct approach. I’ve never been good at small talk, but for the record, Pisces, should be midfifties tomorrow, and loved red wines.”

Laughter rumbled in his chest. “Aries, will take a jacket tomorrow, beer man.”

I tipped the neck of my bottle toward him, and I carefully and regretfully set it on the kitchen counter next to a bowl of apples and bananas. I wanted to tell him about Clare, press him for details about solving cold cases, but suddenly knew if I didn’t get away from that beer, my dance with the devil would not end well.

“Thanks for the beer. I better get going.”

“If you come back when the boxes are cleaned out, I promise better conversation.”

My idea of good conversation was decomp rates, but that sounded weird even to me. “Sounds like a plan.”

As I moved to the door, he fell in step behind me, and for a moment, I flashed back to someone watching, walking behind me so close I could smell the scent of his soap and feel a brush of air as his hand reached out toward me.

Agitated nerves tingled as I opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Cool air rushing up the stairwell skimmed my skin.

“Good to know I’m not the only human on the floor now,” I said.

“Don’t be a stranger.”





13


MARISA

Monday, March 14, 2022

10:00 a.m.

I didn’t see Alan again on Sunday. A few times I thought I heard him leave his apartment, linger near my door as if he might knock, but he never did. The weather on Sunday had been pleasantly cool, but Monday brought cold, drizzling rain and temperatures in the low thirties. Virginia had four seasons, and they were all in March.

After working all day Sunday on website updates, invoicing, and scheduling, I would have been happy to take Monday off and hibernate. But I had a client coming to the studio for a professional headshot. He had heard of my work through Brit, so I’d spent extra time cleaning my place and setting up the blue-gray backdrop that I’d bought secondhand from a photographer who’d retired two years ago. I pulled the long curtain separating my living and work spaces.

At precisely 10:00, the buzzer at the main entrance shouted out an arrival. I hurried downstairs, saw a man dressed in a suit under the awning, and pushed open the door.

“May I help you?” I’d learned not to volunteer information but to let the customer offer his or her name.

“Paul Jones,” he said. His short black hair was slicked back to accent his raw-boned features, tanned skin, and penetrating gray eyes. “Marisa Stockton of MIS Images?”

“You found me. My studio is on the fifth floor.”