word to the wise. There’s a new kind of storm coming, and you’ll want to seek out higher ground.”
And with that, Darius Marlowe slipped out the door, jogged down a square spiral of stairs that echoed with his footfalls, and stepped onto Mass Ave leaving MIT behind.
Chapter 10
Caring for Django turned out to be a welcome distraction from the mounting fear Becca had felt in the dark corridors of the mill. She knew her camera held clues to a mystery that she would need to confront, but in the hard, gray daylight of the outside, those mysteries took on the bleached-out hue of a fading nightmare, and the dog’s needs took precedence, enabling her to shift her focus from cosmic dread to personal responsibility. Part of her mind was already ticking off things she could do about the photos, like making backups and showing a couple of the best examples to either Clay Dalton—her mentor at the Museum School—or Uncle Neil, who now ran a camera shop after retiring from forensic photography.
The fact was, she didn’t want to think about what she might have captured in the corridor, so she tamped it down by telling herself that when she did look at the shots on the big screen, the images would somehow make sense in a way that had eluded her while she was freaked out in the dark, with only the LCD for reference. It would make sense, or one of her mentors would make sense of it for her. For now, she focused on the dog. She might not be able to help Moe Ramirez, but she was pretty sure she could help Django.
When they arrived at her warehouse apartment, she offered Rafael a beer and asked him if he wanted to watch TV while she groomed the dog, already feeling self-conscious about just how prepared she was to take care of an animal she’d been unlikely to ever see again. He accepted the beer but not the remote, and ended up following her around while she fussed with the dog, trimming clumps of matted hair with a pair of shears. To his credit, he did hold Django to keep him from jumping out of the claw-foot tub while she worked what was left of his fur into a medicinal lather. By then Rafael had finished his beer and was shaking his head with a smirk she found infuriating.
“What? What’s funny about this?”
“You.”
“What about me?”
“Flea shampoo?”
“Well, duh. I don’t want fleas in my apartment.”
“So you just keep the stuff on hand?”
“No, I bought it when I decided to rescue him.”
“I just think it’s cute you’ve been planning this for a while.”
“He needed someone.”
“What if he belongs to someone?”
“He doesn’t. He’s a hurricane dog.”
“So you’re gonna have the vet scan him for a microchip?”
She hadn’t thought of that, and knew he could see the trepidation on her face as she considered it. He laughed. “Fuckin’ dognapper.”
Becca aimed the shower wand at him. He flinched at the spray and let go of Django, who immediately shook off and soaked the both of them.
From there it escalated into a water fight, with Django happily yapping between the pair. Later, when Rafael had gone home and Becca was curled up on the futon with a glass of red and the dog on a blanket at her feet trying to burn his nose on the little electric space heater she’d set up for him, she thought of how good it had been to laugh. She’d almost forgotten what it felt like after putting her grandmother in the ground and then succumbing to the encroaching paranoia that had come with the odd encounters she’d had these past few weeks—first with the tattooed reverend at the asylum and then with Maurice and his talk about cracks in some cosmic wheel. She supposed her attraction to the margins of society was responsible for those encounters. She’d never wanted to photograph shiny, happy people, and if you were going to go poking around in abandoned asylums on forsaken hilltops and collapsing mills beside rat-infested wharves, you had to expect to meet your fair share of
And with that, Darius Marlowe slipped out the door, jogged down a square spiral of stairs that echoed with his footfalls, and stepped onto Mass Ave leaving MIT behind.
Chapter 10
Caring for Django turned out to be a welcome distraction from the mounting fear Becca had felt in the dark corridors of the mill. She knew her camera held clues to a mystery that she would need to confront, but in the hard, gray daylight of the outside, those mysteries took on the bleached-out hue of a fading nightmare, and the dog’s needs took precedence, enabling her to shift her focus from cosmic dread to personal responsibility. Part of her mind was already ticking off things she could do about the photos, like making backups and showing a couple of the best examples to either Clay Dalton—her mentor at the Museum School—or Uncle Neil, who now ran a camera shop after retiring from forensic photography.
The fact was, she didn’t want to think about what she might have captured in the corridor, so she tamped it down by telling herself that when she did look at the shots on the big screen, the images would somehow make sense in a way that had eluded her while she was freaked out in the dark, with only the LCD for reference. It would make sense, or one of her mentors would make sense of it for her. For now, she focused on the dog. She might not be able to help Moe Ramirez, but she was pretty sure she could help Django.
When they arrived at her warehouse apartment, she offered Rafael a beer and asked him if he wanted to watch TV while she groomed the dog, already feeling self-conscious about just how prepared she was to take care of an animal she’d been unlikely to ever see again. He accepted the beer but not the remote, and ended up following her around while she fussed with the dog, trimming clumps of matted hair with a pair of shears. To his credit, he did hold Django to keep him from jumping out of the claw-foot tub while she worked what was left of his fur into a medicinal lather. By then Rafael had finished his beer and was shaking his head with a smirk she found infuriating.
“What? What’s funny about this?”
“You.”
“What about me?”
“Flea shampoo?”
“Well, duh. I don’t want fleas in my apartment.”
“So you just keep the stuff on hand?”
“No, I bought it when I decided to rescue him.”
“I just think it’s cute you’ve been planning this for a while.”
“He needed someone.”
“What if he belongs to someone?”
“He doesn’t. He’s a hurricane dog.”
“So you’re gonna have the vet scan him for a microchip?”
She hadn’t thought of that, and knew he could see the trepidation on her face as she considered it. He laughed. “Fuckin’ dognapper.”
Becca aimed the shower wand at him. He flinched at the spray and let go of Django, who immediately shook off and soaked the both of them.
From there it escalated into a water fight, with Django happily yapping between the pair. Later, when Rafael had gone home and Becca was curled up on the futon with a glass of red and the dog on a blanket at her feet trying to burn his nose on the little electric space heater she’d set up for him, she thought of how good it had been to laugh. She’d almost forgotten what it felt like after putting her grandmother in the ground and then succumbing to the encroaching paranoia that had come with the odd encounters she’d had these past few weeks—first with the tattooed reverend at the asylum and then with Maurice and his talk about cracks in some cosmic wheel. She supposed her attraction to the margins of society was responsible for those encounters. She’d never wanted to photograph shiny, happy people, and if you were going to go poking around in abandoned asylums on forsaken hilltops and collapsing mills beside rat-infested wharves, you had to expect to meet your fair share of
Similar Books
