Chapter 23
While washing the next morning’s breakfast dishes, I think of the man’s terrifying, tan hand spread against the white leather car seat and remember taking pictures of his face.
A plate slips and shatters in the sink.
“Judith?” Tom calls from the other room.
“I’m fine, it’s fine,” I sing back, trying to sound carefree, like the woman who’s opened her heart and now feels as light as a bird.
The pointed shards say otherwise. I stare at one in particular—a perfect triangle with a sharp tip—for a long while before dropping it into the trash with the rest, then washing the tiny fragments down the drain.
“What happened?” Tom asks, standing in the doorway.
“Just an accident. A soapy dish slipped. It happens.” I smile.
Once I’ve sent Tom off to work with a kiss, I walk slowly down the cellar stairs to the darkroom, gripping the thin railing as I go.
I tremble at the door and make a promise to myself: If I have a clear picture of him, I will tell Tom everything.
We will go to the police. I move through the steps mindlessly: mix the chemicals, load and soak the film, rinse it, hang the negatives to dry.
After lunch I print the negatives, then wait impatiently for them to dry.
Once enough time has passed, I rip them down from the line and take them upstairs.
First I see the hard proof of my mediocre shooting day—then I hold my breath and squint at the shots taken inside the car.
There’s nothing in any of them. Only a blue and white blur, something that might—or might not—be the dashboard of his car. Alongside my frustration, I feel a sliver of relief as sharp as the plate shard: Now I won’t tell Tom anything. I won’t have to visit the police.