Chapter 27
TIME OF DEATH
Jude sits at his desk, searching on his MacBook for a photo lab that can develop thirty-year-old film. Behind him, I pace in the gloomy sunlight spilling through his arched windows.
The only photo lab in Foggy Hollow is at CVS, and they stopped developing film on site years ago. We’d have to mail the camera to a central lab with a turnaround time of seven to ten days. I can’t wait seven to ten days. I’m dying to know what’s on these pictures right now.
My phone dings.
Hey … r u almost here with the glitter bins?
My stomach drops.
The text is from Harper, who’s at the fairgrounds.
I’m supposed to be there, too. With the glitter bins.
I promised Mrs. Calloway I’d grab them from the high school.
Instead, I’m here—wrapped up in something from which I can’t possibly disentangle.
I shoot her a quick apologetic reply as Jude leans back in his chair.
“The closest one’s in Greensboro,” he says.
“North Carolina?”
“It would be a four-hour drive one way.” He taps his desk. “If we left now, we’d get there by two. One hour to develop the photos. Home by seven. It’s not awful.”
I want to say yes.
More than I’ve ever wanted to say yes before.
But I have a prior commitment.
“I can’t be gone all day. I promised Mrs. Calloway I’d help with the floats.”
Jude looks disappointed.
He wants the film developed, too. But for a different reason.
I think it might show the rift, maybe even a few shots of Daisy Buchanan.
If we can identify her, maybe we can find her.
And possibly, interview her. Jude halfway agrees.
He thinks Daisy’s on the film, too. Only instead of traveling through a rift, he suspects she’ll be getting high with Simon.
“It’s weird that she was never mentioned in the investigation,” I say, more to myself than Jude. “Two of Lily’s friends were interrogated. You’d think they’d do the same with one of Simon’s. But the report made it sound like he didn’t have any friends at all.”
“Maybe Daisy Buchanan wasn’t any more real than this rift,” Jude says.
“You think she could have been a figment of his imagination?”
He looks at me ruefully, for he has unwittingly made a connection from one mystery to the other. The portrait and the cold case. Both involve a mysterious girl nobody seemed to know.
Jude picks up the camera. “Maybe we ought to take this to the police.”
“Why would we do that?” I ask.
“It’s evidence, isn’t it? Undeveloped film hiding in one of the victim’s bedrooms, along with a journal written at the time the family disappeared.”
He’s right, of course.
It is evidence.
But I give my head an adamant shake.
If we submit this to the police, we’ll never see it again. They’ll read Simon’s journal, draw the same conclusion as Jude, and toss it into an evidence locker where it will languish in perpetuity. They might develop the pictures, but they certainly won’t share them with us.
I need to see these pictures.
Not in seven to ten days, either.
I resume pacing—thinking, thinking, thinking when a thought strikes. “The photography guy!”
I snap my fingers a few times, trying to drum up his name. “Mr. Evensby, maybe? He taught a photography workshop last winter at our school.”
Organized by Mrs. Calloway.
I had to work, but Twig went.
I shoot him a text, then bite my thumb nail and keep pacing.
A moment later, Twig replies.
Len Ebely?
I text him back.
YES! That’s him. Do you think he’d have a way to develop film from a disposable camera?
I stare at the scrolling ellipse.
I’m 87% sure he has a dark room in his basement. What are you doing with a disposable camera?
Will fill you in later! Enjoy the symposium! Kick butt tomorrow!
I pocket my phone. “Run a search for Len Ebely, Foggy Hollow.”
Jude types the phrase into his laptop and hits return.
Two results load at the top.
An Etsy shop, and a website.
Jude clicks on the website.
It’s minimalistic with a simple header and a small portfolio, along with a short bio and contact information that includes an email address and a phone number.
Even though it’s a Saturday morning, I give him a call.
He answers after the second ring.
“This is Len.”
“Hi, uh, Len? My name is Selah Whitlock. I’m a junior at Foggy Hollow High. My good friend, Spencer Calloway, took your photography workshop last winter. I wanted to go, but I couldn’t make it because of a previous obligation.”
Jude leans back in his chair, looking slightly amused by my preamble.
“I remember Spencer,” Len says. “What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering … well, I found this disposable camera, and I’d really love to have the film developed. But there’s no photo lab here in Foggy Hollow that develops film, and the nearest place is in Greensboro which is a four hour drive. I was wondering if you had a way to do it?”
“A disposable, huh? How old?”
“The mid 1990s.” 1995, to be exact. But I’m wary of giving him the year. To someone born and raised in Foggy Hollow, it would stick out like a sore thumb. According to Len’s bio, he’s lived his whole life in this town.
“I’m not sure how well the pictures will turn out, but I could give it a try. Do you want to drop it off?”
Twenty minutes later, Jude is parking along Maple Grove Road.
Len Ebely’s small, weathered home hides behind a magnificent tree with leaves like fire.
Past the tree, we find a sagging front porch and a single car garage, currently open with no car.
Instead, Len stands in front of a worktable wielding a welder as sparks fly, the electric sizzle of scorched steel drowning out the sound of leaves crunching underfoot as we approach.
As soon as Len spots us, he stops. The torch extinguishes. He lifts his protective mask onto the top of his head and there he is, a middle-aged white man with wheat-blonde hair and a matching scraggly beard.
“You came fast,” he says, pulling off his work gloves.
After brief introductions, Jude hands him the camera.
Len turns it over in his hand. “These were popular when I was a kid.”
“Do you think the film will develop correctly?” I ask.
“It looks in decent condition. The pictures might turn out foggy, but I guess we won’t know until we try.”
I wipe my palms on the thighs of my jeans.
What if the photos do turn out, and Len comes upon an incriminating picture?
What if he goes to the police and Jude and I get arrested for obstruction of justice?
What if we’re dragging poor Len Ebely into a crime scene?
The questions keep spiraling, but I hold my tongue.
Why open a can of worms if it doesn’t need to be opened?
These could very well be benign photographs. But then, why hide the camera?
“Any idea when they’ll be done?” Jude asks.
“I’ve got some projects to finish up here, but I should be able to get around to them tonight or tomorrow. I’ll give you a call when they’re ready.”
Jude nods, cool as a cucumber, and shakes Len’s hand.
I stuff my own inside the pockets of my jeans, positive their clamminess will give us away. I don’t exhale until we’re back in Jude’s car.
“Now we wait,” he says, turning his key in the ignition.
“My favorite,” I reply with a heavy dose of sarcasm.
My phone vibrates.
The message is from Mrs. Calloway.
I text her back, letting her know I’m on my way.
Then I look at Jude, an idea dawning. One that might make the wait a little less painful. “On a scale of one to ten, how good are you with glitter?”
The sharp wail of a newborn cuts through the room. A nurse places a slick and wriggling child on the mother’s chest. She cries, too. Only hers is a much different sound as the nurse gently cleans the baby’s skin and covers him with a warm blanket.
The father is there, too. Right by the woman’s side, sliding a small cap over a crown of dark, downy hair as the baby’s cries subside into adorable grunts and whimpers. Huddled together, beholding their child with wonder and awe, the man’s eyes fill with tears. He kisses the mother’s sweaty brow.
“I love you,” he says, like he’s never said it before. She looks up at him like she’s never heard it before, her eyes dewy, too. They come together in a kiss as the baby coos between them.
All is right and happy and perfect.
Until it isn’t.
Without any warning at all, the woman goes limp.
Alarmed, the man taps her cheek. “Rebecca? Rebecca, wake up.”
Her head lolls.
The man shouts for help.
The nurse rushes back into the room, noticing what the man has not. Blood. So much, it soaks the pad and the bedding beneath her. She hurries to the emergency call button and says, “Rapid Response in Labor and Delivery, Room 204. Heavy postpartum bleeding.”
The man continues to call for his wife, like she simply needs to wake up.
Wake up, Rebecca. Wake up.
The nurse scoops up the baby and places him inside a plastic basinet as a medical team rushes inside with a crash cart.
The man begins to panic.
“Sir, we need space to help her,” another nurse says. “You will need to wait outside.”
“But my wife, what’s happening to my wife?”
He’s ushered out of the room without an answer.
The baby is, too.
The door swings closed but it doesn’t shut out the sound. Horrible, urgent sound. A tornado of noise and voices, shouts and commands, and then, the worst sound of all.
A flat, monotone beep.
No more movement.
No more commands.
Just a hollow voice that says, “Time of death, 4:24 p.m.”
The baby lay alone in the basinet, cooing obliviously. Unaware of the man who has collapsed onto his knees. Somehow, I’m there in the hallway, looking at the child, swaddled in a blanket, wearing that tiny cap—not hospital issued, but hand knit with love and care. Stitched with a name.
Jude.
I lurch awake with a loud gasp.
It’s dark.
The middle of the night.
I’m not in the hospital.
I’m in my bed.
The red digits of my bedside clock cast an eerie glow upon my journal, and my stomach knots with dread.
Somehow, I know.
That dream wasn’t just a dream.