Chapter 16 – Lily #4
Clearing my throat, I accept the truth. “Guess I didn’t think you were that perceptive.”
“I’m a crime journalist. It’s my job to be perceptive.”
“It’s also your job to share the truth about what’s going on in this city, but I’m starting to wonder if the stories are bent to benefit you.”
“Is this regarding the Kodak-Killer-sized elephant in the room?” I shrug, and he rolls his eyes. “When are you going to accept that I’m. Not. Him.” Another lift of my shoulders, and his expression becomes increasingly more agitated. “I shared my truth. Now tell me, why were you following me?”
I readjust myself in my seat, the leather creaking beneath me.
Here goes nothing. “A few weeks ago, after a new victim, I pulled out all the articles that have ever been written on the Kodak Killer.” My gaze holds his.
“And I noticed only one name on the byline. Only one person who always seemed to have access and answers.”
“It’s my job,” he counters, but I don’t believe it’s that simple.
I lean forward, voice hushed. “Are those photos in your darkroom part of the job?”
“Not all of them.” His lips split into a slow, knowing grin. “But you’re well aware of that.”
“What do you mean?”
He bites his lower lip, then releases it slowly. “You took pose fourteen.”
My cheeks flame, and I swallow hard, trying to quell the embarrassment, but my throat is dry.
I take a long sip of my milkshake, and the more time passes, the smugger Aster’s smile gets.
I may give myself a brain freeze if I don’t stop soon, and my throat tightens, making breathing difficult.
Have I suddenly developed a dairy intolerance or has oxygen left the atmosphere?
“You know—” I cough. “I don’t have anything appropriate to say.”
He barks a laugh. “That’s two of us.”
“Okay, well, let’s play devil’s advocate here,” I say to force the topic off me, and his eyes meet mine. “I’m going to pretend I believe for a moment”—I present a single finger—“a brief moment, that you are not the Kodak Kille—”
“I’m not,” he cuts in, and I put up a hand.
“So let’s say you’re not the killer—”
“I’m not.”
“So then the million-dollar question is, do you know who it is?”
A silence falls over us just as Dahlia delivers our food, and I can’t help but laugh at Aster’s face as she sets the tuna sandwich before him. He doesn’t hide his glare as she sets the burger before me.
“You said it was delicious,” I say with a teasing smile.
“It is,” Dahlia says with a wink, walking away.
“So?” I ask Aster. “Do you?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t.”
I should be relieved, but that only heightens my frustration. “How is that possible?”
“What?”
“That the lead crime journalist, who likely has more information than anyone aside from the police, has no clue who Kodak is.” My hand on the table clenches, nails digging tiny moons in my palms. “If even you don’t know, then how the hell is there any hope to find him?”
“Hey.” He reaches out and places a hand on mine, stilling me. “I said I don’t know who he is. Not that I’m not looking. Not that I don’t have any leads.”
His thumb strokes my knuckles reassuringly, but my anxiety skyrockets nonetheless. I think about Violet and her laugh and her smile. How she should still be here and I shouldn’t have let her leave that night, and a million and one other things that could have changed the outcome.
“Where do the photos come from?” I ask, trying to veer the conversation back on track, and he releases my hand. I shouldn’t be so damn disappointed at the loss of contact. After all, just an hour ago, I was 99% convinced he was the killer I’ve been searching for. How can so much change in an hour?
“Kodak emails them to the Solarium and the precinct whenever they’re ready for us to know about a new victim.”
“Email?” I ask, and he nods. “What’s with the darkroom then?”
“Those are for other articles.” And shirtless selfies apparently… “Sometimes if I’m feeling old school, I’ll convert Kodak’s digital files to physical negatives and develop them in the dark room too.”
“Has anyone ever tried to do an IP search on the email?”
“It’s a dead-end.” He dips a fry in ketchup.
“I’ve tried. The precinct’s tried. Nada.
” His phone rings, and he glances at the screen on the table and sighs.
“One sec, it’s the Solarium,” he tells me before taking the call and placing it to his ear, fry abandoned.
“Hey… Yeah… Yeah?” He looks at me, brow cocked, and my curiosity is piqued.
“Wait, what?” More silence. “Yeah, where? I’ll check it right now.
Okay, bye.” He hangs up, typing around on the device.
“What was that about?”
“Just got photos of the latest Kodak Kill.” My blood runs cold.
He turns his screen to face me, presenting an image of the woman we saw die tonight, posed under a street bridge with red graffiti behind her, those same eyes void of life.
My heart twists in my chest, oxygen voiding the room. “Do you believe me now?”
I nod, covering my mouth with one hand and nudging his phone away with the other. “I believe you.”