Fatal Exposure - By Gail Barrett Page 0,50

a while, but they finally located a photography shop near Carroll Park that had a professional-grade drum scanner, which Brynn insisted they needed to get the highest resolution to view the film. Parker flashed his badge to ensure priority treatment from the manager and forestall questions about any violent images the film contained.

A short time later, Parker sat inside a coffee shop in a partially boarded-up strip mall, drumming his fingers on the table while Brynn set up her laptop and inserted the CD. This is it. He was finally going to find out why Tommy had lost his life.

Brynn transferred the digitalized files into Photoshop and pulled the first shot up. Parker hunched forward, not sure what to expect. But two teenage girls filled the screen. The one on the left looked Middle Eastern. She had straight black hair, exotic eyes, a breathtakingly beautiful face. The other girl was softer, still pretty, but less intimidating with her thick hair piled in a messy knot atop her head. He couldn’t tell her hair color from the black-and-white photo, but guessed she was a brunette. “Are those your friends?”

Brynn gave him a nod. “The one on the left is Nadira—Nadine. She’s a plastic surgeon in New York now. The other one is Haley. She runs a teen shelter in D.C.”

She scrolled through several shots—Haley smiling and cuddling a kitten, Nadira taking shelter in a doorway to escape the rain. But despite their smiles for the camera, their eyes looked wounded and stark. Brynn had captured the essence of her subjects even then.

Then Tommy’s face appeared on the screen, and Parker’s heart stumbled to a halt. He took in his brother’s gaunt cheeks, the shaggy hair flopping over his brows, the dark circles underscoring his spiritless eyes. He’d been so young. So addicted. So lost.

Trying hard to swallow, Parker stared at the screen as Brynn paged slowly through the shots—Tommy clowning around with Brynn. Tommy sprawled on the ground amid a pile of trash. Tommy slumped against a wall, his eyes wasted, looking weary beyond his years.

Unable to bear it, Parker squeezed the bridge of his nose, a burn forming behind his eyes. If only he could have saved him...

“I’m sorry,” Brynn whispered. “I shouldn’t—”

“No.” He let out an uneven breath. “I want to see them.” These were the final images of his brother’s life.

A terrible pressure crushing his chest, he forced himself to watch as more images of his brother marched across the screen. Tommy laughing at the camera. Tommy feeding a stray dog. Tommy shooting up in a flophouse, his eyes tormented, enslaved by addictions he couldn’t defeat.

And Brynn hadn’t held back. She’d showed the harsh reality of Tommy’s life—no matter how much it tortured him to see.

Parker scrubbed his face, grief welling up inside him, the pain too sharp too endure. But Brynn reached out and touched his hand. And the warmth of her skin was like a lifeline, enabling him to hang on.

“Are you all right?” she asked in a soft voice.

It took him a moment to answer. “Not really.”

“That’s the last shot I have of him.”

Which seemed to make it worse.

Releasing Parker’s hand, she hurried through the rest of the photos—shots of unknown kids this time. Grateful for the reprieve, Parker struggled to compose himself and ease the brutal tightness that had a stranglehold on his throat.

Then a warehouse appeared on the screen. “This is it,” she said, her voice low.

Parker tensed, his gaze glued to the screen. Brynn continued clicking through the shots, and despite the inconsistent exposure, he could see the effect she’d been trying to create. She used the shadows to highlight subtle details, making even cracked paint seem alive. And while the photos were rough, her technique not yet refined, her talent was evident in every shot.

Then a dark, blurry image came on the screen. Parker frowned, trying to make sense of the picture, but he could barely make out any forms. “What’s that?”

“You’ll see.” Her brows knitted, Brynn began manipulating the picture, increasing the contrast, sharpening the focus, using the toning tool to lighten the shot, until the image of a kneeling man took shape on the screen.

“Allen Chambers,” Parker murmured. The heroin addict the City of the Dead gang had executed that day.

Then he blinked, his brain catching up with his eyes. Hell. Chambers wasn’t only kneeling; he was falling backward. She’d snapped the shutter at the exact moment he’d been shot.

His heart racing, he scrutinized the violent scene. Chambers knelt