Fatal Exposure - By Gail Barrett Page 0,48

he walked with her toward the library, trying not to notice how the cold breeze tousled her shiny hair, the way her snug jeans molded her thighs.

Or how right she felt by his side.

Stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets, he stopped at the crosswalk at Cathedral Street and waited for the light to change. “Why did you hide the negatives here?” he asked, determined to exert some mental discipline and keep his mind on task.

She didn’t answer at first. A trash truck barreled past. The flags atop the library snapped in the gusting wind. Several homeless men loitered near the book drop, smoking cigarettes while they waited for the library to unlock its doors.

“I used to hang out near here,” she said when the light changed and they started across the street. “One day I was walking past the library and noticed a display they had.” She nodded toward the tall, rectangular windows gracing the building’s facade. “They were showcasing the work of A. Aubrey Bodine, the famous photojournalist. Those pictures blew me away. The way he used texture and light...” A note of awe filled her voice. “I had to go inside. I came here all the time after that to study his work. I read all the photography books I could, trying to improve my craft. I didn’t have much money, so I couldn’t afford to waste film. I figured the more I learned, the fewer mistakes I’d make.”

Parker watched her speak, mesmerized by the passion in her voice, the way her eyes lit up as she discussed her work.

He’d never met anyone so intriguing in his life.

As if realizing she’d gone off on a tangent, she shot him a rueful smile. “Anyhow, I spent a lot of time here, back in the stacks.”

“Did you always want to be a photographer?”

She nodded. “It was a way to stay connected to my father at first. Taking photos helped keep him alive in my mind. And then...it consumed me. It became part of who I was, something I had to do. And when I started winning contests and showing my work...”

“How did that happen? It couldn’t have been easy on the run.”

“My friends showed my work to a gallery owner in San Francisco. That’s where we were living at the time. He suggested I get an agent, so I did.” She shrugged. “My agent helped me a lot after that.”

Mulling that over, Parker walked with her to the entrance just as people started filing inside. He hung back, letting her precede him through the turnstiles, then stopped in the central hall.

The place was impressive, he had to admit. A huge glass ceiling soared several stories above him. Spotless terrazzo floors gleamed in the brilliant light. Rectangular marble columns formed a loggia around the periphery, while in the center sat a large information desk flanked by potted trees.

“It’s changed,” Brynn said with a frown. She motioned toward a glassed-off section to one side. “That used to be the newspaper room. I just hope they haven’t remodeled upstairs.

“I didn’t dare hide the negatives outside,” she continued, leading the way around the elevators to the stairs. “The weather would have ruined them. This was the only place I could think of where they might be safe.”

Parker slid her a glance as they started up the staircase, curious about how she’d gotten by. “Where did you get your film? You couldn’t have had much money.”

“I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you mean.” Her voice turned defensive now. “There was a photography store on Charles Street, not far from here. I used to search their trash at night to see if they’d thrown away any supplies. One night the owner caught me. Mr. Fowler. He was a crotchety old guy and scared me half to death, but he was a marshmallow inside.” A smile ghosted across her face and warmed her eyes.

“He took pity on me when he realized how badly I wanted to learn. He let me sweep floors and do odd jobs in return for film and darkroom supplies. And he taught me what he knew.”

Parker gazed at her face, attuned to the quirk of her brow, the way she scrunched her nose when she thought, the mesmerizing fullness of her soft lips.

He was doomed, all right. Last night had demolished any impartiality he’d had. Even more alarming, he didn’t seem to care.

“That’s where I developed the pictures I took at the warehouse,” she added, heading up another flight of stairs.