Chapter 2 - The Photograph That Shouldn't Exist
Theodore Vale had seen men lie while bleeding, while begging, and while standing over the bodies of people they loved.
Detective Samuel Reed was better at it than most.
He did not raise his voice.
He did not blink too quickly.
He simply looked at Iris Bennett and repeated the lie.
“I don’t know him.”
Iris held the sketchbook perfectly still.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Then why did you look at the scar?”
Samuel’s expression changed.
Barely.
But enough.
“What?”
“You looked at the scar before you looked at anything else.”
Theodore said nothing.
He had been watching Iris since the moment she began drawing.
He had expected talent.
He had not expected this.
The woman could see a lie forming before the liar had finished speaking.
Samuel glanced toward the other tables.
“This isn't the place.”
“Then where is?” Iris asked.
“At the station.”
Theodore folded his arms.
“Which station?”
Samuel glared at him.
“That doesn't concern you.”
“It does when you arrive five minutes after someone notices a surveillance vehicle outside.”
Samuel’s gaze snapped toward the windows.
And that was the second mistake.
Iris saw it.
Theodore knew she had.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Samuel lowered his voice.
“Iris, listen to me carefully. You need to put down that sketchbook and come with me.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No.”
“Am I being questioned as a witness?”
“Potentially.”
“Then tell me what investigation this concerns.”
Samuel hesitated.
Theodore almost smiled.
He liked her questions.
Not because they were clever.
Because they were the right questions.
Before Samuel could answer, a crash sounded downstairs.
Glass breaking.
A woman screaming.
The studio went silent.
Then footsteps thundered up the staircase.
One of Theodore’s security men appeared.
“Sir.”
Theodore turned.
“What happened?”
“Someone tried to force the rear entrance. We stopped him, but there's another vehicle outside.”
Samuel reached for his radio.
Theodore raised one hand.
“Don't make this worse.”
Samuel ignored him.
“Dispatch, this is Detective Reed. I need units at—”
His radio crackled.
Then stopped.
He frowned.
“Dispatch?”
A second crash sounded below.
Colette Marchand hurried toward the stairwell.
“What's happening?”
“Get everyone away from the windows,” Theodore ordered.
Samuel snapped, “You don't give orders here.”
“Then start giving useful ones.”
Iris looked around.
Twenty-one frightened couples.
Several people holding paintbrushes like weapons.
Brooke had begun crying.
Her boyfriend stood protectively in front of her.
Iris felt her police training take over.
“Everyone,” she called, “move toward the back wall. Stay low and don't use the stairs until we know what's happening.”
People obeyed.
Colette immediately began guiding them toward a storage room.
Theodore glanced at Iris.
“You're good under pressure.”
“Compliment me later.”
A loud popping sound came from outside.
Then another.
Not fireworks.
Gunshots.
Theodore moved instinctively in front of Iris.
His security man drew his weapon but kept it pointed downward.
Samuel finally got a response from dispatch.
“Shots fired,” he reported. “Possible armed suspects near the building.”
Iris's heart raced.
Theodore took her sketchbook.
“Hey!”
“I'm keeping this from getting lost.”
“Give it back.”
He did.
Immediately.
Even in the chaos, that small act registered with her.
He could have kept it.
She doubted anyone would have stopped him.
But he had listened.
The studio lights flickered.
Someone screamed again.
Then Eleanor Vale appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Theodore!”
His face drained.
“Mother, get back!”
Eleanor stopped.
A man stood behind her.
Beige coat.
Black gloves.
The same man Iris had seen outside.
He held a pistol against Eleanor's back.
The room froze.
“Everybody stay where you are,” the man said.
His voice was calm.
Almost bored.
Theodore's security guard raised his gun.
“Put it down,” the stranger said.
Theodore slowly lifted both hands.
“Let her go.”
The man smiled.
“Always the devoted son.”
Iris stared at him.
A long nose.
Thick eyebrows.
A small scar near the left corner of his mouth.
She looked down at her drawing.
The resemblance was unmistakable.
Theodore saw her expression.
So did Samuel.
And suddenly Iris understood the danger.
The man from the Archer Street warehouse fire was standing ten feet away.
Alive.
Armed.
Holding Eleanor Vale hostage.
The stranger's gaze moved to Iris.
“There she is.”
She felt a cold wave pass through her.
“Who are you?”
He smiled.
“Wes has told me so much about you.”
Her stomach dropped.
“Wes?”
“Such a sweet woman. Such a trusting woman.”
Theodore's voice became deadly quiet.
“Leave her out of this, Victor.”
Victor.
Iris glanced toward him.
So Theodore knew the man.
“Where's the money?” Victor asked.
Iris said nothing.
“The eight thousand dollars, sweetheart.”
Theodore moved slightly.
Victor pressed the weapon closer to Eleanor.
“Don't.”
Theodore stopped.
Iris's fingers trembled.
“It's in my purse.”
“Good girl.”
A flash of anger cut through her fear.
“Don't call me that.”
Victor looked amused.
“Feisty. Wesley didn't mention that.”
“Because Wesley doesn't exist.”
Victor chuckled.
“See? Smart girl.”
Samuel stepped forward.
“Victor, listen—”
Victor turned sharply.
“Stay out of it, Detective.”
Iris went still.
He knew Sam.
Not merely recognized him.
He addressed him like someone familiar.
Samuel’s face tightened.
“Put the gun down.”
Victor smiled.
“You first.”
“I don't have a weapon in my hand.”
“No,” Victor said. “You've always preferred somebody else doing the dirty work.”
Theodore looked at Samuel.
And Iris saw something final settle in his expression.
He had suspected.
Now he knew.
Victor turned back toward Iris.
“The money, please.”
She carefully lifted her purse.
But instead of reaching inside, she paused.
“I have a question.”
Victor laughed.
“Of course you do.”
“Was any of it real?”
He looked confused.
“Was what real?”
“Wes. The messages. The things he said.”
For the first time, Victor's smile faltered.
Something about the question seemed to irritate him.
“Does it matter?”
Iris swallowed hard.
“Yes.”
Victor studied her.
Then he shrugged.
“The script was real. The feelings were yours.”
The words struck harder than she expected.
All those late-night conversations.
All those private hopes.
Nothing but a script.
Theodore's jaw clenched.
Victor extended his hand.
“Now give me the purse.”
Iris looked at Eleanor.
The older woman was frightened.
But her eyes were fixed on Theodore.
Not pleading.
Warning.
Iris suddenly noticed Eleanor's left hand.
Her fingers were moving.
Three taps against the railing.
A pause.
Two taps.
Another pause.
Iris frowned.
Then remembered something from a police training seminar about silent distress signals.
Eleanor wasn't simply trembling.
She was counting.
Behind Victor, near the stairwell, Theodore's second security guard was slowly moving into position.
Eleanor was tracking the man's steps.
Three.
Two.
One.
Iris made her decision.
She threw the purse.
Not toward Victor.
Toward the open window.
The bag struck the glass.
The latch, loosened earlier to ventilate the room, gave way.
The window flew outward.
Her purse tumbled onto the snow-covered awning below.
Victor swore.
His attention shifted for one fatal second.
Eleanor dropped to her knees.
Theodore lunged.
The security guard grabbed Victor's gun arm.
A deafening shot cracked into the ceiling.
Paint jars shattered.
People screamed.
Iris ducked behind the table.
Samuel rushed forward.
In less than ten seconds, Victor was on the ground, his weapon kicked away.
Theodore stood over him, breathing hard.
Blood ran down his left forearm.
Eleanor scrambled toward her son.
“Theodore!”
“I'm fine.”
“You're bleeding!”
“It's a scratch.”
Iris knew a scratch when she saw one.
That was not a scratch.
But Theodore barely looked at the injury.
He stared at Victor.
“Who sent you?”
Victor smiled through bloody teeth.
“You know who.”
“Say his name.”
Victor said nothing.
Samuel stepped between them.
“Back away, Vale.”
Theodore looked at him.
“You've got five seconds to explain how he knew your name.”
Samuel's face hardened.
“I don't owe you an explanation.”
“You owe her one.”
He pointed toward Iris.
She stood slowly.
For the first time, Samuel looked genuinely ashamed.
“Iris—”
“Were you involved?”
“No.”
“Then why did he know you?”
Samuel glanced at Victor.
Theodore noticed.
“Don't look at him. Answer her.”
Samuel swallowed.
“I've been investigating him.”
“Without telling me?”
“It was confidential.”
Iris stared at the man she had trusted for six years.
“Sam, you told me the Archer Street case was closed.”
“It was.”
“Then why does the man in my sketch recognize you?”
Samuel opened his mouth.
But before he could respond, Victor began laughing.
A strange, breathless laugh.
“You still don't get it,” he said.
Iris looked down at him.
“Get what?”
Victor tilted his head toward Samuel.
“Ask your detective friend why he made sure you were assigned to the warehouse case.”
Samuel went pale.
Iris felt something inside her tighten.
“What?”
Victor smiled.
“Ask him who gave the witness your name.”
Theodore moved toward him.
“Enough.”
But Victor continued.
“Ask him what happened to the first sketch.”
Samuel shouted, “Shut up!”
The room fell silent.
Iris looked at Samuel.
Then at Theodore.
Then at the sketchbook in her hands.
Something was terribly wrong.
And suddenly she remembered a detail from the warehouse case.
A detail she had forgotten for three years.
The witness had never described a scar.
She had added it herself.
Because she had seen that same scar in a photograph attached to the case file.
A photograph Samuel Reed had given her.
Iris's blood turned cold.
She opened her sketchbook.
Looked down at the face.
And whispered, “Oh my God.”
Theodore turned.
“What?”
May you like
Iris slowly raised her eyes toward Samuel.
“You gave me the face.”
