Chapter 2
“Have there been any new leads…in the case?” Paul asks Tom cautiously. Tom shakes his head.
Tom was the one who found her—his wife of twenty-nine years, lying on the ground at the back of the lot, her mouth gaping open, blood pooling around her.
The knife next to her, carelessly discarded by her killer.
Paul learned later it was her knife, something she’d carried to protect herself from the stalker he’d only heard about after she died.
But Tom had known about both—and the police posited he could have murdered her himself and made it look like the stalker’s doing.
The news grabbed hold of this story for a while, making Tom’s living hell even more hellish, Paul assumed.
“Nope. They’re pretty useless, the police. They haven’t done a damn thing.”
“But they did a search, and interviewed people—”
“Like you,” Tom says sharply, looking up.
“And you,” Paul returns, though it feels like twisting a knife in a hollow man’s back.
“Yes,” Tom concedes, sounding weary.
“Well, they were wrong in both cases,” Paul hastens to add. “Should have been looking elsewhere from the start.” He expects some sign of agreement or appreciation from Tom, but it doesn’t come. Instead, Tom asks:
“Why’d you end class early that night? I’ve been wondering. Why then? And why weren’t you with her? Didn’t you two…talk after class? Isn’t that when she told you she wanted your help with her pictures?” Tom’s eyes, newly bright, fix on Paul.
“I-I told the police all this,” Paul says lamely.
“I know you did, but I’m asking you to tell me, too.”
“Of course. I understand. I ended class early because I wasn’t feeling well—I told the class that, and the police know.
Judith showed me the pictures she’d taken on our field trip—extraordinary, as always—and that’s when she told me she wanted to see them published.
Or hoped to have them published, and wanted my help.
I was thrilled, Tom. I really was,” Paul says, smiling as he elaborates on the lie.
“I told her we’d talk about details the following week.
I wanted her to bring me ten of her best prints, and she said she would.
After that, I let her know I had to finish a few things in my office before leaving, so we said our goodbyes.
I can’t tell you how badly I wish I’d walked her out like I sometimes did. I would have seen she had no car, and…”
Would it have ended differently, though?
Would she have accepted a ride from Paul when she knew Tom was coming?
Wouldn’t Paul have left her then, in front of the school, waving as he drove away, essentially offering her up to her killer?
Paul wonders if Tom, too, is thinking all this through.
He doesn’t show any sign of doing so—or any sign at all.
His face has loosened into sorrow and longing.
When Paul speaks again, it’s in a low, soft register.
“Look, all I want is to honor Judith’s last wish, and bring her work to light.
I could involve you as much or as little as you want.
” When Tom gives a slight nod, Paul thinks he’s won.
He’s gently nudged the man, in his delicate state, toward accepting his reasonable request. But then Tom comes abruptly back to life.
“So what’s in it for you? Why are you so interested in publishing Judith’s pictures?”
Paul stifles a nervous laugh. He feels exposed, and like he’s underestimated Tom—or overestimated the stupor of his grief.
What’s in it for Paul? Well, all the things he’s imagined in the weeks since recovering from the shock of Judith’s death, some of which may be purely fantastical, none of which he’d say aloud, and all of which make him slightly queasy to acknowledge—even to himself: a warm and hitherto unimaginable welcome from the art world; the padding of his wallet with crisp new bills; and the jolt it might give his own photography career, such as it is, to be the spokesman for Judith’s work.
Paul leans forward himself now. “My main—my only interest is in bringing Judith’s work to a wider audience. To the public. That’s where her photographs belong.”
“No,” Tom says with a wave of his hand. “They belong with us—with her family. Not with strangers, not the public,” he says dismissively. Paul tries to fight the feeling he has of sinking, of losing. He was so close, just a moment ago.
“Tom, remember. Judith came to me—”
“There’s no proof of that,” Tom says flatly.
“How could there be?” Paul asks, his voice pitched higher than he’d like. Tom goes quiet. Paul lets the silence stretch between them before trying a different angle. A risky but convincing one, he hopes.
“Publishing Judith’s photographs would be a powerful way to counteract the image people have of her now, from the late-night news. The housewife…slain in a parking lot. It’s stark, but sadly true.”
“Don’t talk about that. Don’t say a word about it.” Tom’s voice is low and menacing.
“Forgive me.” Paul scrambles to think of something else.
He knows he’s running out of time, that Tom’s patience will soon vanish and he’ll find himself back on the front porch, empty-handed.
“I also think you might—well, if things progress, it might provide some extra income for you and your son. I know that isn’t—”
“Ah,” Tom says, lifting his eyebrows. “There it is. You want money. That’s what’s in it for you. Got it. You can go now.” He stands and stalks to the door. Paul stands, too, but stays by the sofa holding his hands up, palms out. He’s done begging; impatience and anger overtake him.
“No. That’s not why I’m doing this. I’ve told you why I’m doing this, though you haven’t heard.
Maybe you don’t understand. We’re talking about a magazine submission, Tom.
Magazines don’t pay much. Believe me—a pittance like that isn’t my motivation.
” He knows he has little chance now of convincing Tom he isn’t a rank opportunist, out to profit from a dead woman’s work.
Or worse—someone who may even have killed his wife for profit.
Maybe Tom will call the police now to report what he’s said—though Paul doubts Tom would bother calling the “useless” cops.
Tom stands, opens the door, and motions for Paul to leave. What can he do but comply? He makes one last attempt before he goes.
“Judith wanted this,” he says, pressing forward with pure conviction.
“You’re letting her down if you just plan to box up her photographs and store them away.
It isn’t what she wanted—not at the end.
She wanted my help. She wanted an audience, too.
She told me, Tom.” Tom looks at him with such violence that Paul waits for a punch; it doesn’t come.
A vein in Tom’s forehead jumps out, but that’s all.
Paul walks down the steps, and hears the door slam and lock behind him.
Sitting behind the wheel, an ugly idea blossoms in his mind: of breaking into the house one day to find those damn pictures himself.
He’d use a crowbar to pry open the back door, search the small house, and load every last print, roll, and negative into the trunk of his car.
He’d have them all to himself then. He wouldn’t be able to publish them, of course, but at least he would own them.
Until Tom sent the police after him—or came after Paul himself.
Paul won’t do it, of course. He isn’t that kind of thief—never has been.
And the whole point is sharing the pictures, not hoarding them like some ghoul in a cave, like Tom, hunched over treasures he can’t comprehend.
Paul’s outrage over this, as he drives home, fans the flames of his desire to have Judith’s pictures, to get them.
And then to give them back, of course. To everyone. To the whole wide world.