CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Robert Yamada had almost cancelled the shoot three times.
The first time was yesterday morning, when the news broke about Derek Paulson—found dead at Hawk Ridge, staged behind his own camera like some grotesque art installation.
Robert had stood in his kitchen with his phone in his hand, watching the coverage on the small television mounted above the counter, and felt something cold settle in his stomach.
The second time was yesterday afternoon, when Jennifer Hayes's body was discovered. Two photographers. Two scenic overlooks. Less than twenty-four hours apart.
The third time was last night, when Marcus had looked at him across the dinner table with those dark eyes that always saw too much and said, quietly, "You don't have to go."
But Robert Yamada was fifty-three years old, and he'd been chasing the perfect shot for longer than he'd been doing almost anything else in his life.
Gooseberry Falls in late winter, when the ice still clung to the rocks, but the water had begun to flow beneath it—that was a photograph he'd been planning for months.
The conditions wouldn't align again until next year, if then.
Besides, the police were treating it as targeted.
Professional photographers with public profiles, award winners, people who'd made names for themselves in the regional art scene.
Robert had won his share of awards—the Minnesota Arts Council prize two years ago, several juried competitions before that—but he wasn't in the same league as Paulson or Hayes.
He was a nature photographer, not a landscape artist. Different circles, different competitions, different enemies.
If there were enemies. If this wasn't just random madness dressed up as a pattern.
Still, he'd taken precautions.
"Gooseberry Falls," he'd told Marcus before leaving their apartment in the pre-dawn darkness. "The upper falls overlook. I'll be set up by six, shooting until maybe eight, nine at the latest. I'll text you when I get there and when I'm heading back."
Marcus had kissed him—a soft press of lips against his forehead, the familiar scratch of stubble against Robert's skin. "Be careful."
"I will."
"I mean it, Robert. Anything feels wrong, you leave. The shot's not worth—"
"I know." Robert had pulled back, meeting his partner's worried gaze. "I know. I'll be careful."
Now, standing at the edge of the overlook with his tripod assembled and his camera mounted, Robert felt the familiar magic of the place wash over him.
Gooseberry Falls plunged forty feet over dark volcanic rock, its waters partially frozen into curtains of blue-white ice that gleamed in the first light of dawn.
The sound was hypnotic—the rush of water beneath ice, the occasional crack as frozen chunks broke free and tumbled into the pool below.
Mist rose from the falls like breath, catching the early light and transforming it into something ethereal.
This was why he did it. This moment, this communion between photographer and place, when the world revealed itself to those patient enough to wait.
He'd texted Marcus from the parking lot: Here. Setting up now. Love you.
The response had come immediately: Love you too. Be safe.
Robert checked his phone now—6:17 AM, the screen glowing in the dim light—and slipped it into the chest pocket of his jacket where he could reach it quickly.
His car was a five-minute walk back through the trees.
The ranger station wouldn't open for another two hours, but there were emergency call boxes along the main trail.
He'd noted their locations on his way in, a paranoia that felt both foolish and necessary in equal measure.
The sky was lightening toward the east, bands of purple and pink bleeding into the gray.
Perfect conditions. Perfect light. Robert bent to his viewfinder and began the careful process of composing the shot—adjusting the tripod height, tweaking the angle, finding the precise relationship between falling water and frozen ice that would make this image sing.
He was so focused on the composition that he almost missed the sound.
A branch snapping, somewhere behind him in the tree line.
Robert straightened, his heart suddenly loud in his ears.
He turned slowly, scanning the forest that pressed close to the overlook's edge.
The trees were dense here, pine and birch crowding together, their lower branches heavy with snow.
In the dim pre-dawn light, the shadows between them could have hidden anything.
Nothing moved.
Probably an animal, he told himself. Deer were common in the park, even in winter. Foxes, too. He'd photographed both dozens of times, knew their sounds and their silences.
But his hand went to his chest pocket anyway, fingers closing around the solid weight of his phone.
Another sound. Closer this time.
The crunch of snow beneath a boot.
Robert's breath caught. He pulled out his phone, thumb already moving toward Marcus's contact, toward 911, toward anything that might bring help to this isolated overlook where he'd stupidly come alone despite everything he knew—
A figure emerged from the tree line.
Robert's mouth opened to call out—a warning, a greeting, something—but the figure moved too fast, closing the distance with a speed that seemed impossible, and Robert understood in one terrible instant that he'd been wrong about everything.
Wrong about different circles.
Wrong about different enemies.
Wrong about being careful.
He fumbled with the phone, his cold fingers clumsy on the screen. The figure was almost on him now, and Robert turned to run, to scream, to do anything except stand frozen while death came for him—
The blow caught him at the base of the skull.
White-hot. Final.
Robert Yamada fell forward, his phone tumbling from his fingers into the snow, its screen still glowing with Marcus's contact photo—the two of them at Pride last summer, smiling in the Minneapolis sunlight, alive and together and impossibly far from this frozen place.
The falls roared on, indifferent, as the figure bent over Robert's body and began the careful work of composition.