they had been solid and true and grimly understandable. The bright flashes had taken away the shadows—all except for the sad hollows around his dead brother’s eyes. That had been a reality that twelve-year-old Jake could understand. The more he had talked about the things that Isaac claimed to have seen out in the snow, only to have cops and shrinks think he’d imagined it or was making it up, the less he felt willing to admit what he had seen. A face at the window. Icy hands coming through the screen …
Until eventually he had begun to realize that the cops and the shrinks had to be right. They had to be. His little brother’s imagination and his own grief had gotten the better of him.
But even now, a dozen years later, the camera gave him comfort. Pictures made it real. The flash chased the shadows away and left only the tangible world. If the camera couldn’t see something, it wasn’t real.
“I’d make a terrible cop,” Jake said at last, as he slung his camera bag over his shoulder. “Besides, I only do this so I can afford to take the pictures I care about.”
Keenan fished out his phone. No crime-scene tech had shown up and he needed some fingerprinting done. Whoever had been sent out had probably been delayed by the storm, but Keenan didn’t need Jake to tell him that.
“Be sure to invite me to your first gallery opening,” the detective said.
Jake couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic. He didn’t like to talk about what his mother called his “nice pictures.” She thought his paying job was ghoulish and wished that he could make a living as a different sort of photographer. So did Jake.
“I’ll do that,” he said, and headed out the door.
On his way out he took another look at the victim. In the bedroom they’d been making light of the situation, but when she glanced at him and he saw her face again—the swelling, the dried blood on her lips—he felt bad about that. Addict or not, she deserved sympathy. At twenty-four, he knew far too many people who used drugs or alcohol to try to forget the things that haunted them. Coventry had more than its fair share of bad memories.
He went down the stairs and out into the storm, nodding to the cop guarding the door. Normally there would have been neighbors and other spectators gathered outside but the snow fell thickly now, a white silence that spread across the city. The forecast called for about eight inches, turning to rain at the end. It would be a hell of a mess tomorrow, but this afternoon and tonight it was beautiful.
Jake hurried to his car, anxious to get out his personal camera. He’d first truly fallen in love with the camera in high school, taking pictures of ominous thunderheads from his back porch, finding beauty in the churning clouds and the way the blue sky had been so quickly blotted out. Now his real art—photography that he had indeed shown in a few galleries, not that he’d ever tell Keenan that—was photographing storms of all kinds. Trees bending in a gale, rain on glass, shafts of light spearing through black clouds. Snowstorms provided the most beautiful and haunting images of all.
But his favorite photographs were not of the storms themselves. The ones about which he felt the most passionate, and perhaps not coincidentally the ones he had sold for quite a bit of money, were pictures of the mornings after. When the sky had cleared and the sun had returned and, despite whatever damage the storm had left behind, everything looked clean and pure and somehow renewed …
He never saw Isaac in the snap of the lens when he took those pictures.
Those were the moments he lived for.
SIX
A knock at the door got Allie Schapiro up out of her chair. She’d been sitting beside a window in her living room, reading by the wan gray daylight that filtered through the storm and drinking a glass of red wine. One finger holding her place in the book, she went out into the little foyer and put her hand on the
Until eventually he had begun to realize that the cops and the shrinks had to be right. They had to be. His little brother’s imagination and his own grief had gotten the better of him.
But even now, a dozen years later, the camera gave him comfort. Pictures made it real. The flash chased the shadows away and left only the tangible world. If the camera couldn’t see something, it wasn’t real.
“I’d make a terrible cop,” Jake said at last, as he slung his camera bag over his shoulder. “Besides, I only do this so I can afford to take the pictures I care about.”
Keenan fished out his phone. No crime-scene tech had shown up and he needed some fingerprinting done. Whoever had been sent out had probably been delayed by the storm, but Keenan didn’t need Jake to tell him that.
“Be sure to invite me to your first gallery opening,” the detective said.
Jake couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic. He didn’t like to talk about what his mother called his “nice pictures.” She thought his paying job was ghoulish and wished that he could make a living as a different sort of photographer. So did Jake.
“I’ll do that,” he said, and headed out the door.
On his way out he took another look at the victim. In the bedroom they’d been making light of the situation, but when she glanced at him and he saw her face again—the swelling, the dried blood on her lips—he felt bad about that. Addict or not, she deserved sympathy. At twenty-four, he knew far too many people who used drugs or alcohol to try to forget the things that haunted them. Coventry had more than its fair share of bad memories.
He went down the stairs and out into the storm, nodding to the cop guarding the door. Normally there would have been neighbors and other spectators gathered outside but the snow fell thickly now, a white silence that spread across the city. The forecast called for about eight inches, turning to rain at the end. It would be a hell of a mess tomorrow, but this afternoon and tonight it was beautiful.
Jake hurried to his car, anxious to get out his personal camera. He’d first truly fallen in love with the camera in high school, taking pictures of ominous thunderheads from his back porch, finding beauty in the churning clouds and the way the blue sky had been so quickly blotted out. Now his real art—photography that he had indeed shown in a few galleries, not that he’d ever tell Keenan that—was photographing storms of all kinds. Trees bending in a gale, rain on glass, shafts of light spearing through black clouds. Snowstorms provided the most beautiful and haunting images of all.
But his favorite photographs were not of the storms themselves. The ones about which he felt the most passionate, and perhaps not coincidentally the ones he had sold for quite a bit of money, were pictures of the mornings after. When the sky had cleared and the sun had returned and, despite whatever damage the storm had left behind, everything looked clean and pure and somehow renewed …
He never saw Isaac in the snap of the lens when he took those pictures.
Those were the moments he lived for.
SIX
A knock at the door got Allie Schapiro up out of her chair. She’d been sitting beside a window in her living room, reading by the wan gray daylight that filtered through the storm and drinking a glass of red wine. One finger holding her place in the book, she went out into the little foyer and put her hand on the
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