Don't Say a Word - Barbara Freethy [43]
"That photo was important," Julia said slowly and deliberately. "You made her life and her death matter. Your work throws a spotlight on injustice in the world. That's a noble calling."
"Don't try to make me into some hero," he said harshly. "I was thinking only of myself. I should have helped her, not photographed her. I'll never forgive myself for making that choice. It made me realize how often I don't see the person, only the shot, only the award-winning photographic record."
"So she changed the way you think."
"Yeah, and I wish she hadn't. It was easier the other way." He rose. "I need a beer. Do you want one?"
"Sure," she said.
He used his time in the kitchen to regain his control. He was pissed off at himself for telling Julia so much, but in an odd way, it was a relief to share it with someone. He pulled two beers out of the refrigerator, popped the tops, and took the bottles back to the living room. Julia was on her feet, gazing at some of the framed photographs on his walls.
"This is your work, too?" she asked, taking a beer from his hand.
"Yes. Why do you sound surprised?"
She waved her hand toward the colorful garden landscape. "I didn't take you for a flower guy."
"I have my moments," he said with a smile. "I took those shots when I was in college. I was just figuring out how to use my cameras. When I moved in here, I needed to put something on the walls, and I figured the women I brought home would like 'em."
She smiled back at him, and the somber mood between them lightened. "So you ask women if they want to come home with you and see your pretty pictures?"
"I don't phrase it quite like that."
"I'll bet."
He took a swig of his beer. "Why don't we get back to you, Julia. Tell me again what happened with the reporter who came to your door."
"She wants to interview me. She's very persistent. I told her I have nothing to say, but I think I'm going to have to tell her something. The question is what?"
"What do you want to say?"
"I'm not sure. But I'm even more concerned about what I want to do next. I don't suppose you have any brilliant ideas?"
"Find out who you are. Before someone else does." He looked her straight in the eye. "I told you when we first met that you couldn't back out until this was over, and you can't. Not because I say so, but because when you came to me you set things in motion, and with a little help from my mother they're still in motion."
"You're right. I spoke to my father earlier. He gave me a few tips that I took to the Internet. It's a long shot, but I may have a lead on my grandmother."
"Really?"
She nodded, then swallowed. "The names are slightly different, but she may live in Buffalo, New York, where my mother said she was born. My father also told me my mother went to Northwestern, but I don't know-"
"Your mother went to Northwestern," he cut in. "My dad also went to Northwestern." Alex's nerves began to tingle the way they always did when his instincts told him he was on to something.
Her gaze filled with uncertainty. "It's a big school. Do you think there's a connection between them?"
"We did find that envelope with the name Sarah on it. How old was your mother?"
"She turned fifty-eight right before she died."
"And my father would be fifty-nine if he'd lived, so they would have been in college at the same time. My mother told me that a woman named Sarah used to call my dad late at night. He said she was an old friend." Alex thought for a moment, wondering where they could take this lead. "Old friends," he repeated. "That's it. I need to talk to Stan."
"Who's Stan?"
"He used to work at World News Magazine. He was my father's editor,