I’d been meaning to get it developed, but every time I drove past Norman’s camera shop in town, I found an excuse to keep driving.
Part of me wanted to preserve the mystery, to keep whatever Daniel had seen through that lens suspended in amber, undeveloped and pristine.
But I woke that Tuesday morning with unusual clarity. The house was too quiet, the silence accusatory. I was tired of being afraid of photographs.
Norman’s shop occupied a narrow storefront between a hardware store and a defunct diner on Main Street in Milbrook, population 30,047.
The bell above the door chimed as I entered, and the familiar smell of chemical developer and old paper enveloped me.
Norman Brereslin had been Daniel’s friend since grade school, a thin man with kind eyes who’d photographed our wedding, Caroline’s first steps, Marcus’ high school graduation.
“Maxine.”
He smiled, but something flickered behind his eyes.
Surprise.
Concern.
