Chapter 15
Twenty minutes later Estelle parked in front of a brick building on the edge of downtown with a sign above the door that read: Caleb Foster Photography.
The studio windows glowed against the darkening sky, and as we stepped inside, a bell above the door chimed.
The place was larger than I’d expected. Framed photographs covered the walls, pictures of landscapes, weddings, as well as a handful of old black-and-white portraits.
Toward the back of the room, behind a reception desk, was a man who looked to be around my age. He was tall, handsome, and dressed in jeans and a black button-up shirt. His dark hair curled at the collar, and his gentle eyes put me at ease.
The moment he saw Estelle, he smiled. “Aunt Estelle. Good to see you.”
“You too, dear,” she said.
He stepped around the desk and wrapped her in a hug before turning to me.
“You must be Olivia.”
“I am.”
“Caleb Foster. Nice to meet you.”
“Thank you for seeing us tonight.”
“Of course.” He glanced toward the film canister in my hand. “Estelle told me you found an old metal box in the house you lived in as a child, and there was a roll of film inside.”
“That’s the short version.”
He motioned toward a sitting area in the corner of the studio. “Why don’t we all sit down, and you can explain the rest?”
Estelle and I exchanged a nervous look, and I found myself unsure of how much I wanted to say. An hour from now, we could discover nothing more than photographs of birds or pictures of my family.
Or … we could discover something far worse.
We sat, and after a long moment, I began.
I told Caleb about my mother’s final words, and about my father’s death.
I said that I’d returned home and bought my childhood house, and that during some renovations this morning, the box had been found.
I showed him the newspaper clippings about Christy Meyers, Lara, and Melinda Bellamy.
Estelle chimed in here and there, filling in details about the neighborhood and the years after my father died.
Caleb listened without interrupting, his expression growing more serious as I went on.
When I finished, he sat back in his chair and looked at the film canister in my hand.
“So you think your father may have photographed something connected to these women?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
He nodded. “I’ll develop it, but before I do, there’s something we need to agree on.”
“I was about to say the same thing.” I looked from him to Estelle. “No matter what’s on this film, I don’t want anyone else hearing about it until I’ve had time to decide what I need to do next. But I promise you, I’ll do the right thing.”
Caleb folded his arms and nodded. “You have my word.”
“Mine too.” Estelle hesitated, then added, “But if what’s on that film has anything to do with Lara, I expect you’ll turn it over to the police.”
I reached across the table, squeezing her hand. “I promise.”
Caleb stood, and I handed him the roll of film.
“Let’s see what your father left behind,” he said. “You can wait out here until I’m done. It shouldn’t take too long.”
He disappeared through a door at the back of the studio, leaving Estelle and me alone. For a while, neither of us spoke, the ticking of an old clock on the wall filling the silence as we waited for the good news, or bad, depending on how one looked at it.
Estelle sat with her hands folded in her lap, staring at the floor. “You think he found something, don’t you?”
“My father?”
She nodded.
“I think he suspected something,” I said, “and that he was trying to prove it. Maybe that’s why he never said anything to you. He wanted to be sure.”
She let out a long sigh. “I spent twenty years believing there was more to your father’s death than anyone wanted to admit. Now I’m terrified we might actually find out the truth.”
I didn’t know what to say because I was terrified too.
Almost an hour passed before the darkroom door opened and Caleb stepped into the room carrying a thick stack of photographs.
For a moment, he just stood there, his face forlorn.
“Caleb?” Estelle asked. “What is it?”
“I don’t know what I’m looking at,” he said. “You need to see these photos for yourselves.”
He crossed the room and handed the stack of photos to me.
As I lifted the first image, my hand trembled.
It was a bedroom.
The picture had been taken from a distance, through a window.
Standing inside the room were a man and a woman.
“Do you recognize anyone?” Caleb asked.
Estelle leaned closer.
Then her eyes widened, and she pointed at the man. “It’s Preston.”
I looked again.
Even from a distance, there was no mistaking him.
The dark hair.
The broad shoulders.
The profile.
It was him.
My pulse quickened as I flipped to the next photograph, and the next.
The woman was younger, with long dark hair.
I reached for the newspaper clipping lying on the table beside me. “I think the woman in some of these photos is Melinda Bellamy.”
“The missing girl?” Caleb asked.
I nodded.
We continued to sift through the pictures. In one, Melinda had her back to Preston. It was clear by their facial expressions that they were having a heated argument. My heart pounded as I looked at the next one. Melinda’s head was turned to one side, and a streak of blood ran down her cheek.
In the next image. Preston's arm was raised, his expression twisted with anger, as Melinda recoiled from him. My pulse quickened as I turned to the photograph after that.
She was lying motionless on the floor.
Preston stood over her.
By then, my hands were trembling, almost causing me to drop the final photograph. As I looked it over, for a moment I couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing. Then the realization hit, and a chill swept through my body.
Preston was no longer looking at Melinda. He was staring out at the window, hands on hips at the camera, at my father.
Now I understood why my father had hidden the photographs beneath his office floor. Because he hadn’t just witnessed a crime. He’d been seen doing it.