Chapter 14: The Luncheon

Nicholas looked at the phone for a moment.

"What kind of camera?" he asked.

The photographer told him.

"That model sends a copy of every frame to a phone or a cloud account. Did you ever switch that off?"

The line went quiet.

"I don't know," the photographer said slowly. "My nephew set it up."

"Look," Nicholas said. "Please."

Then a sound I didn't expect from a grown man, half a laugh and half a groan.

"It's all here. Four hundred and twelve frames. Small files, but they're here."

"Don't send them to us," Nicholas said. "Don't send them to anyone. Put your phone in your pocket and stay home. We're coming to you."

We were at his door in Sag Harbor in forty minutes.

He was in his fifties, heavy, with paint on his sneakers from a porch he'd been working on.

He looked up and down the street before he opened the door all the way.

"Whoever broke my window knew which car was mine," he said. "I've done Hartley parties for six summers. I'd like to do them for six more."

"You won't," I said. "Not after Saturday. Either way."

He looked at the bruise still yellow on my wrist.

Then he stepped back and let us in.

We went through the frames at his kitchen table.

The toast was there. Shelby's glass touching mine, her smile aimed at the crowd.

Then the lawn from the terrace, wide, for the society page.

At the edge of the frame, past the lanterns, was a white dress.

Nicholas zoomed in.

Shelby stood with her back to the party, half behind a tree.

She held my glass in her left hand.

Her right hand was over the top of it.

Between her fingers was a small white capsule, broken open.

The time stamp said 9:41 p.m.

Thirty-four minutes before she fell down the steps.

The photographer rubbed his face with both hands.

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