Chapter 2 - The Room Above the Studio

Arthur drove.

Marco sat beside him.

I sat in the back.

My name is Leah Porter.

Twenty-eight.

Maid.

And somehow I was now carrying a paper envelope full of negatives that could destroy two families.

The old photography studio was twenty minutes away.

Dark windows.

Faded sign.

MILES PORTRAITS.

Arthur unlocked the side door.

Marco did not wait.

He climbed the narrow stairs.

One room above the studio.

Light under the door.

Marco stopped.

His hand touched the black wolf tattoo on his neck.

Then knocked.

No answer.

Again.

“Mom?”

Silence.

Arthur looked at him.

Marco opened the door.

The room was empty.

Bed unmade.

Tea still warm.

A gray coat on the chair.

Marco walked toward it.

His fingers touched the sleeve.

“She was here.”

Arthur nodded.

“Minutes ago.”

On the table:

A photograph.

Marco at age fourteen.

Standing beside a cemetery gate.

Taken after Maria disappeared.

On the back:

I WATCHED FROM ACROSS THE STREET.

I AM SORRY.

Marco closed his eyes.

Then another photograph.

Marco at seventeen.

Graduation.

Another.

Twenty-one.

Outside his first office.

Another.

Twenty-six.

Leaving a hospital.

Marco stared at the stack.

“She watched me grow up.”

Arthur’s voice was quiet.

“Yes.”

“And never came closer.”

“She believed she could not.”

Marco turned.

“Because of my uncle?”

“Partly.”

“Partly?”

Arthur pointed to the last photograph.

Marco and Elena.

Eight months earlier.

Walking out of a charity dinner.

A red circle had been drawn around Elena.

Under it:

SHE IS NOT THE DANGER.

HER FATHER IS.

Marco looked at Arthur.

“What did my mother know about Victor Cross?”

Arthur sat down.

“More than the old photographs show.”

The room phone rang.

Everyone froze.

Arthur answered.

“Maria?”

A woman’s voice.

Older.

Shaking.

“Is he there?”

Marco took the phone.

“Mom?”

Silence.

Then breathing.

Marco whispered:

“Please don’t hang up.”

The woman started crying.

“Marco.”

His face changed.

Eighteen years vanished from him.

He sat on the edge of the bed.

“Where are you?”

“Safe.”

“No.”

His voice hardened.

“Do not give me that word.”

Maria went quiet.

Marco continued.

“Everyone keeps deciding what safe means for me.”

“I know.”

“Then where are you?”

“I can’t tell you yet.”

“Why?”

“Because someone followed me from the church.”

Marco looked at Arthur.

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did Elena’s father send them?”

“I don’t know.”

“My uncle?”

A pause.

“That is more likely.”

Marco stood.

“Then let me come get you.”

“No.”

“Mom.”

“Not until you understand why I disappeared.”

“I understand enough.”

“No.”

Maria’s voice sharpened.

“You know they moved money.”

“Yes.”

“You know I photographed meetings.”

“Yes.”

“You do not know what the money paid for.”

Marco went still.

“What did it pay for?”

Maria answered:

“Witnesses.”

Arthur looked confused.

Marco frowned.

“What witnesses?”

“People who were supposed to disappear.”

Silence.

Maria continued.

“Your uncle and Victor were not just hiding money.”

“They were paying people to leave?”

“Sometimes.”

“And other times?”

Maria did not answer.

Marco’s jaw tightened.

“Mom.”

“Other times they paid police officers to make cases disappear.”

Arthur whispered:

“Jesus.”

Marco asked:

“What case involved you?”

Maria’s breathing changed.

“One involving your father.”

Marco froze.

“My father died in a construction accident.”

“No.”

Marco stared at the floor.

“No?”

“Your father was investigating your uncle.”

Arthur stood slowly.

Marco said:

“Investigating what?”

“Missing foundation money.”

“And Victor?”

“He helped move it.”

Marco looked at the photographs.

“My father found out.”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

Maria’s voice broke.

“He confronted them.”

“When?”

“The night before he died.”

Marco stopped moving.

“And you photographed it?”

“Yes.”

“Then the next day he died.”

“Yes.”

Marco whispered:

“So it was not an accident.”

Maria did not answer.

That was enough.

Marco closed his eyes.

Then asked:

“Who killed him?”

A sound came through Maria’s end.

A door.

Footsteps.

She whispered:

“I have to go.”

“No.”

“Marco, listen to me.”

“Where are you?”

“If I do not call again, the original negatives are not with Arthur.”

Arthur stared at the phone.

Marco said:

“Where are they?”

Maria whispered:

“Ask Elena what happened at Saint Vincent’s last winter.”

Then the line went dead.

Marco looked at Arthur.

“Saint Vincent’s.”

Arthur frowned.

“The church?”

“Yes.”

Marco turned toward the stairs.

Elena was standing in the doorway.

She had followed them.

Deep crimson gown.

No coat.

Tears on her face.

Marco stared at her.

“You heard that.”

“Yes.”

“What happened at Saint Vincent’s last winter?”

Elena closed her eyes.

Then opened them.

“I met your mother there.”

“You told me that.”

“No.”

She shook her head.

“You think I met her for the first time.”

Marco waited.

Elena continued.

“I went there because my father sent me.”

“For what?”

“To collect a box.”

Arthur’s expression changed.

“What box?”

Elena looked at him.

“A metal film case.”

Arthur stood.

Marco looked between them.

“The original negatives.”

Elena nodded.

Marco’s face emptied.

“You had them.”

“For one night.”

“Where are they now?”

Elena whispered:

“My father took them.”

Marco looked at the Polaroid in his hand.

Then at her.

“And you said he was trying to fix things.”

“Yes.”

“What did he do with the negatives?”

Elena started crying.

“I thought he destroyed them.”

Arthur shook his head.

“No.”

Everyone looked at him.

Arthur walked to the darkroom door.

On the handle was a strip of fresh photographic tape.

His face changed.

“He was here.”

“Who?”

Arthur looked at Marco.

“Victor.”

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And from downstairs came the sound of glass breaking.

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