Chương 15
“Because you have terrible taste.”
Emily opened to the first page.
A photograph had already been placed inside.
Not the poisoning photograph.
The picture she had taken of the empty table months later.
Warm gold light over black leather.
Nothing on it.
Emily looked up.
“Where did you get this?”
“Your mother made a copy.”
She looked at Rachel.
“You said my pictures were private.”
“I said strangers couldn’t have them.”
“Mr. Adrian is strange.”
Vincent nodded.
“That is legally established.”
Adrian ignored him.
“I thought you could choose what comes after.”
Emily looked through the empty pages.
That could have become a speech.
Rachel saw all three adults almost turn it into one.
Nobody did.
Emily closed the album.
“Okay.”
Then she ate another piece of cake.
That was better.
Near the end of the evening, Vincent stood alone at the bar.
A bartender he did not know placed a whiskey menu in front of him.
Vincent looked at it.
For months he had avoided whiskey entirely.
Not out of principle.
His body simply rejected the idea before his mind reached it.
The bartender said, “Can I get you something?”
Vincent looked toward Adrian.
His brother was arguing with Emily about whether a tomato was a fruit.
Rachel was stacking dessert plates despite being off duty because she apparently could not watch other people work without joining them.
The guard near the entrance checked his phone.
The room looked ordinary.
Vincent touched the menu.
“Bourbon.”
The bartender nodded.
“Preference?”
Vincent almost changed his mind.
His chest tightened.
He could see the original glass too clearly.
Emily’s photograph.
Marcus behind him.
Adrian on the floor.
He placed both hands on the bar.
“Actually—”
Emily appeared beside him.
“What are you doing?”
Vincent looked down.
“Ordering a drink.”
She glanced at the menu.
Then at him.
“You look weird.”
“Thank you.”
“Like you’re mad at the paper.”
“I’m not mad at the paper.”
Emily looked toward the bartender.
“He needs a minute.”
The bartender looked at Vincent.
Vincent nodded.
The man stepped away.
Emily climbed onto the bar stool beside him.
Her feet did not reach the floor.
“You don’t have to drink it.”
Vincent looked at her.
“I know.”
“You also don’t have to not drink it.”
He stared.
Emily shrugged.
“Mom said that when I didn’t want grape juice anymore.”
Vincent smiled faintly.
“Your mother applies philosophy broadly.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Emily swung one foot.
Vincent looked at the bottles behind the bar.
“You still think about that night?”
She nodded.
“How often?”
“Sometimes.”
He waited.
She added, “Less.”
Vincent looked down at the counter.
“Me too.”
Emily studied him.
“Are you scared?”
He almost said no.
Old habits.
Old armor.
“Yes.”
Emily nodded.
She did not tell him brave people could be scared.
He had already told her that.
There was no need to return wisdom like borrowed property.
She simply sat beside him.
After a while, Vincent signaled the bartender.
“Bourbon.”
The bartender returned.
“Neat?”
Vincent looked at the crystal glasses.
Then shook his head.
“No.”
He pointed toward an ordinary short tumbler stacked beneath the counter.
“That one.”
The bartender seemed surprised.
“Sure.”
He poured.
Vincent watched every movement.
Bottle opened.
Glass lifted.
Liquid poured.
Bottle returned.
Nothing hidden.
Nothing switched.
The bartender set the drink down.
Vincent did not touch it immediately.
Emily looked toward Adrian.
“He’s losing the tomato argument.”
“Good.”
“You should help him.”
“He doesn’t deserve help.”
Emily slid off the stool.
Before leaving, she tapped the counter beside Vincent’s glass with one finger.
Not hard.
Just once.
Then she ran back toward Adrian.
Vincent looked at the drink.
His heart beat faster than it should have.
He picked up the glass.
The smell brought back the private room so vividly that his hand tightened.
He waited.
No one rushed him.
No one watched except Rachel, who saw from across the room and deliberately looked away.
Vincent took a small sip.
The bourbon was warm.
Smoky.
Ordinary.
His throat tightened anyway.
He put the glass down.
That was enough.
Across the room, Adrian shouted, “Vincent, explain to this child that botanical classification is not opinion.”
Emily shouted back, “Don’t help him!”
Rachel laughed.
Vincent left the drink on the bar and walked toward them.
He did not finish it.
He did not need to.
The next morning, Emily sat at Rachel’s kitchen table with the new photo album open in front of her.
The first page held the empty Bellamy table.
The second held a crooked photograph of Maya making a face.
The third showed Danielle asleep with her mouth open.
Rachel objected to that one on principle.
The fourth showed a stray cat near the apartment stairs.
Emily turned to the fifth page.
The photograph from Adrian’s birthday had developed beautifully despite his blink.
Vincent stood beside his brother under warm gold light.
His smile was barely there.
Adrian’s was ridiculous.
Emily slid the picture beneath the clear corner tabs.
Then she reached into a drawer.
At the back lay an evidence envelope Rachel had once asked Brooks whether they should keep.
Inside was a duplicate print detectives had made of the photograph from the night of the poisoning.
Marcus with the decanter.
Adrian’s table.
The edge of the glass crane.
Emily had not looked at it in months.
She held it now.
Rachel entered carrying laundry.
“What are you doing?”
Emily looked at the old photograph.
“Thinking.”
Rachel put the basket down.
“About?”
Emily shrugged.
She opened the album.
For a moment Rachel thought she would place the evidence photograph beside the others.
Instead Emily closed the envelope.
She gave it to her mother.
“I don’t want this in there.”
Rachel took it.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“What should I do with it?”
Emily looked down at the new picture of the two brothers.
“Keep it somewhere.”
Rachel waited.
Emily added, “Just not with my good pictures.”
Rachel nodded.
She placed the envelope in the top kitchen cabinet, behind a stack of warranty papers and an old flashlight nobody could remember buying.
Then she returned to the table.
Emily picked up her camera.
“Where are you going?”
“Outside.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Rachel looked at the sink full of dishes.
At the laundry.
At the clock.
“Shoes.”
Emily groaned.
“Mom.”
“Shoes.”
Emily put them on.
At the apartment door, she stopped.
“Are you coming?”
Rachel almost said she had work to do.
Instead she looked at the laundry basket.
It would still be there.
“Yeah.”
They went downstairs.
The afternoon was bright but not beautiful in any cinematic way. Cars needed washing. Somebody had left a broken chair beside the dumpster. A delivery driver argued on his phone. Two teenagers rode bicycles through the parking lot despite a sign telling them not to.
Emily walked slowly.
Her camera hung from her wrist.
Rachel followed several steps behind.
At the corner, Emily stopped.
A little boy was trying to convince his father that a pigeon had stolen part of his pretzel.
The father insisted he had dropped it.
The boy insisted on theft.
The pigeon walked away without concern for either accusation.
Emily lifted her camera.
Then she lowered it.
She looked back at Rachel.
“Can I take their picture?”
Rachel smiled.
“You have to ask.”
Emily turned.
She walked toward the father and son.
“Excuse me?”
The father looked over.
Emily held up the pink camera.
“Can I take a picture of the pigeon?”
The little boy pointed dramatically.
“It’s a criminal.”
Emily looked at Rachel.
Rachel covered her mouth.
The father laughed.
“Sure.”
Emily crouched.
The pigeon stepped onto the curb with half a pretzel in its beak.
She pressed the shutter.
The camera clicked.
A fresh square of film slid into her hand.
Emily stood and waited for the picture to appear.
No one collapsed.
No glass jumped.
No guard moved.
Nobody’s life depended on what the photograph showed.
May you like
It was only a pigeon with stolen bread, a child beside her father, and a sunlit curb on an ordinary afternoon.
Emily smiled before the image had even finished developing.
