Chapter 7: The Photograph

His house was a brick two-story on a quiet north side street, with a shovel leaning against the porch rail and a light on in the kitchen.

I stood on the step for a full minute before I knocked.

I had slept four hours on Bridget's couch.

I had watched Delaney's video over and over.

Now I was holding a padded envelope with a stranger's handwriting on it, about to walk into a stranger's house.

Rhys opened the door in a gray sweatshirt and jeans, and his hair was messy.

"You came."

"I want to see the tape."

"Come in."

The house was warm and mostly bare.

A big couch, a bigger television, a bookshelf holding more hockey trophies than books.

He took the little drive from the envelope, plugged it in, and handed me a mug of coffee.

"It's long," he said. "I marked the part."

"I'll watch all of it."

The screen filled with the arena, shot from the camera that had been aimed at our section.

I saw the heart, then Delaney and Colby, then the kiss, in clean, sharp, unflattering detail.

I made myself watch his hand.

It stayed on her waist for all six seconds, and for four more after they stopped.

Then I noticed something I had missed in the arena.

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