The Photographer by Barbara Steiner Page B

promise to listen. I won’t say you’re crazy.”
    Megan knew Robert was humoring her, patronizing her, but what could she do? Maybe if she thought it through again she could explain it so he’d believe her. She got to her feet and let Robert lead her across the street from the hospital where there was an all-night coffee shop.
    Digging a handkerchief from her purse, she wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and tried to get control of her emotions. Robert ordered two cups of coffee. They came, steaming hot, the rich aroma tempting her. She took a few sips carefully. She would never convince Robert if she kept being hysterical. She could feel Robert’s eyes on her, concerned. He did care. About her. But he didn’t believe a word she was saying. She kept staring at the brown liquid, drinking it slowly, letting it warm her inside. If she could ever feel warm again.
    Finally, looking up, she blinked her eyes. Once, twice, to try to clear her vision. Derrick’s face floated before her. He was out there, by the front windows of the coffee shop, staring at her, smiling, holding a camera, pointing it at her. She gasped and blocked a scream.
    â€œRobert, there. He’s there—outside the window. Derrick. Right now.”
    For a second Robert froze, staring at Megan. Then he jumped up, dashed to the front door, and slipped outside. When he came back, his eyes were kind, pitying Megan. He didn’t believe her. He thought she was imagining things. Was she? Did she really see Derrick? Or was it a hallucination? Or—or one of her visions? Because she was upset, because she was thinking of Derrick, had she imagined his face watching her?
    â€œThere’s no one out there, Megan. I looked in both directions and even walked to the corner. All the stores are closed except the coffee shop. Hadn’t you better get home? I’ll take you.”
    â€œI can’t go home, Robert. I can’t forget this, no matter what you think. What if we drove by Derrick’s house? We could even talk to him, tell him about Cynthia. We could say we wanted to do a memorial section of the paper for her. Ask if he’d share his photos. Any story we can think of. If I can see his reaction, if I can be with him, I’ll know. I’m sure I will.”
    â€œWould that make you give up this crazy idea you have about his involvement with Cynthia’s death?”
    Cynthia’s death.… Cynthia’s death.… Megan had to fight to keep her control at hearing the words, taking them in.
    â€œNo, but I might feel better. It’s something to do. I don’t know what to do, Robert. If you won’t believe me, no one will.”
    Robert paid for the coffee and they stepped out onto the sidewalk. Megan couldn’t help looking both ways and around the parking lot of the small shopping center. There were almost no cars. The place was deserted. Wouldn’t Derrick’s van be in the lot if he were here? No, he’d hide it.
    She put her mind into neutral, tried not to think. She let Robert guide her across the street and put her into his car. They were silent on the way across town, out to Gunbarrel Greens, to Derrick’s house. Robert switched on the radio to late-night, new-age electronic music. It should have been the dreamy end to a date, Megan snuggling close to Robert, listening to the soothing sounds.
    Derrick’s house was dark. Neither his van nor his mother’s car sat in the drive. They had a garage. It was closed. Megan insisted they ring the doorbell even though it was late. Over and over she pushed it, as if the act would produce Derrick or some answers to this deadly puzzle.
    â€œHe’s not home, Megan. No one is home.” Robert took her hand and pulled her back to the car. “Look, tomorrow I’ll ask him to go on the photo trip. The industrial sights, remember? We’ll spend one day with him this weekend, and have time to ask questions.