It’s in her eyes, a pleading insecurity. She doesn’t think she deserves him just the way she is, untouched. I want to tell her that she does. I know words like that will roll right off her. Besides, that’s not my job. My job is to create beautiful photographs.
“I promise,” I say. “You’ll be perfect.” I show her some of the shots on the screen on my camera. Red blotches appear on her cheeks.
“Oh my god, if anyone at work ever saw these pictures, I would die. I mean, Congress is a very uptight place. You have no idea.”
“Really? Senator Fielding seems so cool.”
“Oh, she’s amazing. But she runs a tight ship. Everything is very professional.”
“No one besides you and me will ever see these.”
“Promise?”
I cross my heart. “Promise.”
“You know, the senator might be looking for a photographer.”
“Really? For what?”
Sarah laughs. “Believe it or not, she’s publishing a children’s book. I mean, between you and me, it’s ghostwritten. It’s about women politicians throughout American history. I heard her saying she wanted to update her headshot. Do you ever do those, for like public figures?”
“Sure. I’ve shot Congressman Marcel Parks, and I may be shooting Valerie Simmons soon.” My tone is neutral, as if it’s not a big deal to photograph the former White House advisor turned CNN commentator, but I watch her eyes widen. She’s impressed.
“That’s amazing! I’ll tell her that.”
“Yes, please, pass along my info. I’d love to chat with her.”
“I will!”
When she leaves, all bundled up for the fall weather, Sarah plants a kiss on my cheek. “You’re the best.”
I am buoyed after Sarah leaves. Whatever else is happening, my work is going well, and I have to remember to take comfort in that. Fielding would make three high-profile clients in a row, and three is a pattern, not a fluke.
I head to my computer and spend twenty minutes stalking Heather Grady on social media. Although she is on Facebook, Insta, and LinkedIn, I learn little of consequence. Heather is a runner, always has been. This year she is trying to qualify for the Boston Marathon. She loves ladies’ nights—I see picture after picture of her with various combinations of women from our neighborhood: Priya, Daisy, Vicki, and others at bars and concerts and coffee shops.
Then I see it. A shot of her at the finish line of a race, her arms wrapped around another runner, a woman whose face is obscured by a cap and sunglasses. They both have numbers pinned to their shirts, but I can make out the words on Heather’s friend’s shirt: Overton Academy.
So thrilled to run Give a Child a Chance 10k with one of my besties, Jane Fuller.
But when I check, I see Jane Fuller doesn’t have a Facebook profile. An internet search reveals no signs of her, or rather there are so many Jane Fullers the search is pointless. Maybe she didn’t even go to Overton. The T-shirt might belong to someone else.
Two Overton T-shirt sightings in two days. My gut tells me it has to mean something.
Next, I google Heather’s name and Overton, but the only Connecticut connection I can find is that she went to college at Wesleyan. That means nothing. She could have gone to high school anywhere. I can’t even find her maiden name. Stymied, I spend the rest of the day in a blur of editing and paperwork. I do a little research on Realtors in Westport. I have nothing to go on besides Yelp reviews, and I’m not in the mood to trust the internet. I decide I’ll ask Daisy if she can recommend someone. I’m able to wrap up early. I want to be home in time to relax a bit before dinner tonight with Mark’s family.
As I’m shutting down for the day, Mark texts me, Did you call the lawyer?
Not yet. I want to talk to Mark face-to-face about my concerns about this guy.
On my way out, Mike praises the package I put together for Dwayne and Kylie. My probation will be ending soon, and it feels good to be kicking ass at something, especially when so much else in life feels out of my control.
“Nice lighting. Nice eye in general,” he says as I leave.
His kind words buoy me as I take the stairs to the ground floor of the building. I need the extra good juju before this dinner. I have plenty of time to get home and take a relaxing shower, maybe even a twenty-minute nap.
But when I push open the door to the street, my good mood is snuffed out like a candle. Waiting for me in front of their unmarked cruiser are Detectives Lopez and Katz.
“Afternoon, Ms. Ross,” Detective Lopez says, straightening up. “We’re going to need you to come down to the station with us.”
18
The two detectives sit across a table from me in a sterile conference room in a modern building in downtown Bethesda. On the ride through the streets of rush-hour D.C., I stewed in the back of the unmarked police car like a guilty criminal. When I said I could drive my own car, Detective Katz told me it would be so much easier just to take theirs.
“We know all the back ways,” he said with a wink. They said it was my choice, but it sure didn’t feel that way.
“How are you doing today, Ms. Ross?” Detective Lopez jiggles the remaining ice in a giant plastic cup that says Dunkin’ Donuts on the side. She places the empty cup next to a yellow legal pad and her cell phone. “Your babysitter can stay longer?”
I put my phone bag in my bag. “Yes, it’s no problem. Should my lawyer be here?” I hope they can’t tell that I’m bluffing.
Detective Katz looks surprised and then peeks at his watch. “We had just a few questions, maybe like ten, fifteen minutes. But if you want to call your lawyer, we can wait for them. I’ve got no plans.”
I look at
