idea. I mean, I made a lucky guess is all. Promise me, whatever you do, you won’t tell anyone about the blog thing. I probably imagined everything.”
He shakes his head and exhales slowly.
“What?”
“I get it,” he says. “You don’t think you can trust me because you’ve got a secret that no one could possibly believe. You’re afraid of getting entangled with something that could end up involving you—or worse—costing you.”
All I can do is blink. Right now, there’s nothing I would like more than to tell someone what happened in the darkroom. Because it’s driving me crazy.
“I just want you to know, Xandra. You can trust me. And I don’t think you’re insane.”
“Who said anything about—?”
“Your eyes.”
“Profilers!”
“Thanks for the latte.” He gets up and places his hand on my shoulder. “If you feel like talking about it, call.”
23
The Marbury Award submission deadline is about a month away and without a photograph I’m confident about submitting, each day that passes makes me more anxious.
It’s been a couple of days since my last darkroom episode, and to be frank, I haven’t given it much thought. That’s probably because of Kyle. I’m on a first-name basis with a federal agent now. Splendid.
If I think more about my visions—hallucinations, rather—I’ll eventually have to talk to him about them. Part of me really wants to, but another part wants nothing to do with all this superstition. That’s all it is.
For the past couple of days, I’ve gone to places of great human interest and taken pictures with the Graflex, despite my misgivings. The antique camera drew more than one odd look from passersby.
From Chinatown to the Village on foot, I tried to capture all walks of life, in all conditions. The grimy homeless man leaning on his shopping cart and inadvertently posed next to a slick executive with her Sergio Rossis and Prada tote, the policeman helping a lost elderly Chinese woman across Canal Street. This is New York—for all the good and bad—the city I love.
I even managed to snap a photo of an NYU student holding acampaign sign depicting the rugged, can-do face of Richard Colson. Vote for Colson, Vote for Change!
Time away from the Stacy Dellafina case has helped clear my mind. I’m ready to go back into the darkroom now. One of two things will happen. One: I will see nothing unusual and know that everything I saw had just been a random coincidence. Strange as it was, things like that do happen.
Or two: I will see more mysterious images. If that happens, I will definitely call Kyle Matthews. Either way, I’m ready.
Everything’s in place. I’m just about to shut the darkroom door when my cell phone on the coffee table outside buzzes like a nest of angry hornets. “It would ring now.”
I’m going to let it roll over to voice mail.
Lights out.
Under the protection of the safelight, I begin my work. Today’s shots might actually yield a Marbury winner. A minute into the process, my landline rings.
“Oh, come on. Not now.” Let it ring. I’m busy getting my life back on track. It’s about time for me to make a contact sheet when my answering machine starts taking a message. It’s pretty loud and I can hear it through the door.
“Xandra. It’s Kyle Matthews. We need to talk.”
24
“Hello? You there, Xandra? If you are, please pick up.”
Muttering things that Mom wouldn’t be proud to hear me say, I reach for the cordless I keep in the darkroom. “Kyle?”
“Screening your calls?”
“I’m a little busy.”
“Can we talk?”
“Can it wait?”
“Not really.”
Does he expect me to drop everything just to talk to him? “Give me a sec, okay? I’m in the darkroom right now.”
“In your apartment?”
“Yeah, what’s so hard to believe about that?”
“I just didn’t think anyone … never mind.”
This contact sheet isn’t going to turn out anyway. I wipe my hands, step out into my living room,
He shakes his head and exhales slowly.
“What?”
“I get it,” he says. “You don’t think you can trust me because you’ve got a secret that no one could possibly believe. You’re afraid of getting entangled with something that could end up involving you—or worse—costing you.”
All I can do is blink. Right now, there’s nothing I would like more than to tell someone what happened in the darkroom. Because it’s driving me crazy.
“I just want you to know, Xandra. You can trust me. And I don’t think you’re insane.”
“Who said anything about—?”
“Your eyes.”
“Profilers!”
“Thanks for the latte.” He gets up and places his hand on my shoulder. “If you feel like talking about it, call.”
23
The Marbury Award submission deadline is about a month away and without a photograph I’m confident about submitting, each day that passes makes me more anxious.
It’s been a couple of days since my last darkroom episode, and to be frank, I haven’t given it much thought. That’s probably because of Kyle. I’m on a first-name basis with a federal agent now. Splendid.
If I think more about my visions—hallucinations, rather—I’ll eventually have to talk to him about them. Part of me really wants to, but another part wants nothing to do with all this superstition. That’s all it is.
For the past couple of days, I’ve gone to places of great human interest and taken pictures with the Graflex, despite my misgivings. The antique camera drew more than one odd look from passersby.
From Chinatown to the Village on foot, I tried to capture all walks of life, in all conditions. The grimy homeless man leaning on his shopping cart and inadvertently posed next to a slick executive with her Sergio Rossis and Prada tote, the policeman helping a lost elderly Chinese woman across Canal Street. This is New York—for all the good and bad—the city I love.
I even managed to snap a photo of an NYU student holding acampaign sign depicting the rugged, can-do face of Richard Colson. Vote for Colson, Vote for Change!
Time away from the Stacy Dellafina case has helped clear my mind. I’m ready to go back into the darkroom now. One of two things will happen. One: I will see nothing unusual and know that everything I saw had just been a random coincidence. Strange as it was, things like that do happen.
Or two: I will see more mysterious images. If that happens, I will definitely call Kyle Matthews. Either way, I’m ready.
Everything’s in place. I’m just about to shut the darkroom door when my cell phone on the coffee table outside buzzes like a nest of angry hornets. “It would ring now.”
I’m going to let it roll over to voice mail.
Lights out.
Under the protection of the safelight, I begin my work. Today’s shots might actually yield a Marbury winner. A minute into the process, my landline rings.
“Oh, come on. Not now.” Let it ring. I’m busy getting my life back on track. It’s about time for me to make a contact sheet when my answering machine starts taking a message. It’s pretty loud and I can hear it through the door.
“Xandra. It’s Kyle Matthews. We need to talk.”
24
“Hello? You there, Xandra? If you are, please pick up.”
Muttering things that Mom wouldn’t be proud to hear me say, I reach for the cordless I keep in the darkroom. “Kyle?”
“Screening your calls?”
“I’m a little busy.”
“Can we talk?”
“Can it wait?”
“Not really.”
Does he expect me to drop everything just to talk to him? “Give me a sec, okay? I’m in the darkroom right now.”
“In your apartment?”
“Yeah, what’s so hard to believe about that?”
“I just didn’t think anyone … never mind.”
This contact sheet isn’t going to turn out anyway. I wipe my hands, step out into my living room,
Similar Books
