Chapter 1

The man reflected in the window was Nolan Price.

King Moretti’s head of security.

The same man who had stood in my wrecked apartment three nights earlier, assuring me that nobody would get near me without going through him first.

I knew his face.

I knew the pale scar cutting through his left eyebrow.

And I recognized the heavy silver watch he wore with the face turned toward the inside of his wrist.

I’d noticed that watch the first time we met because my father used to wear his the same way.

Now Nolan was standing behind the person photographing King tied to a chair.

I lowered my phone.

For a moment, I couldn’t hear anything except the refrigerator humming in my tiny kitchen.

The message was still on my screen.

I’d spent three weeks wondering whether leaving Detroit had been the bravest thing I’d ever done or the stupidest.

Standing there, I realized I hadn’t even known what fear was.

I enlarged the picture again.

King’s black shirt was torn near the collar. Blood had dried along his cheek. His hands were bound behind the metal chair.

But his eyes were open.

He was looking slightly to the left of the camera.

Not frightened.

Angry.

I recognized that expression from the nightclub.

The night he’d made a wealthy stranger apologize for humiliating me.

That man had been tall, sandy-haired, and dressed in a charcoal suit. I’d later learned his name was Graham Voss.

He was one of King’s business associates.

And King hadn’t liked him.

I’d thought the disagreement was about me.

Now I wasn’t so sure.

My phone vibrated again.

YOU HAVE ONE HOUR.

I looked toward my camera bag.

The apartment had been cleaned since the break-in, but I still hadn’t replaced the broken drawer in my bedroom.

I couldn’t afford to.

My photography work was beginning to bring in money, but freelance assignments weren’t steady. A local gallery had agreed to display four of my prints the following month.

It was the first professional opportunity I’d had since moving to Chicago.

And now somebody wanted pictures badly enough to threaten a man’s life.

I sat at my small kitchen table and opened my laptop.

Most of my recent photographs were stored on an external drive at the shared studio where I rented editing space.

But I kept smaller previews on my computer.

I searched through the photographs I’d taken during my first weeks in Chicago.

There were hundreds.

Street musicians.

People waiting for buses.

A woman sharing her umbrella with an elderly stranger.

A little boy standing outside a bakery, staring at the cakes.

Nothing dangerous.

Nothing worth kidnapping someone over.

Then I remembered something.

Two days before my apartment was searched, King had asked me an unusual question.

“Do you photograph people without asking?”

I’d laughed.

“Sometimes. That’s street photography.”

“Even if they don’t want to be photographed?”

“Then I usually don’t publish the picture.”

He’d looked at me for a moment.

“Good.”

I’d thought he was being protective.

What if he’d already known something?

I opened the folder from the previous Friday.

That afternoon, I’d been walking near an old commercial building several blocks from the river.

It had started raining, and I’d photographed people hurrying beneath awnings.

One picture showed a woman carrying groceries.

Another showed two men arguing beside a delivery truck.

The third caught my attention.

A tall man in a gray coat was standing beside a black car.

His face was turned away.

But something about his posture seemed familiar.

I zoomed in.

My stomach tightened.

Graham Voss.

The man from the nightclub.

He was speaking to an older gentleman holding a thick red folder.

I’d barely noticed them when I took the photograph.

They were background figures.

The woman with the groceries had been my subject.

But in the photograph, Voss was looking directly toward the camera.

Toward me.

I stared at his face.

Then I remembered him raising his glass at the nightclub.

The way he’d smiled when King told him to apologize.

He hadn’t looked embarrassed.

He’d looked insulted.

My phone vibrated.

Another message.

I took a screenshot.

Then I placed the phone facedown.

I wasn’t going to walk into a stranger’s hands simply because they’d ordered me to.

But I couldn’t ignore King either.

The man had shown up when my apartment was destroyed. He’d sat on my kitchen floor helping me collect broken pieces of glass, even though his expensive trousers were covered in dust.

He’d brought dinner because I was too shaken to eat.

And when I told him I didn’t want to move into one of his properties, he’d accepted it.

He’d treated my independence like something worth protecting.

I couldn’t abandon him.

I reached for my camera.

The memory card inside contained only a few newer photographs. I remembered transferring the earlier images to the studio drive.

Whoever searched my apartment hadn’t found that.

At least I hoped they hadn’t.

A sudden sound made me turn.

Footsteps in the hallway.

I stood perfectly still.

Then I heard a familiar voice outside my door.

“Harper?”

Nolan Price.

My blood went cold.

“Harper, it’s Nolan. I need to speak with you.”

I didn’t move.

“Is King with you?” I asked through the door.

A pause.

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because you’re in danger.”

I looked at the photograph on my phone.

His face in the reflection.

His silver watch.

His scar.

“How did you know I was home?”

“I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He sighed.

“Harper, please. We don’t have much time.”

I stepped toward the door but kept the chain fastened.

Through the narrow opening, I could see his face.

He looked exhausted.

There was dried blood near his collar.

And the silver watch was missing from his wrist.

I held up my phone.

“Explain this.”

He glanced at the picture.

The color drained from his face.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

Then he looked directly at me.

“Where did you get that?”

“Somebody sent it to me.”

His eyes closed.

“Goddamn it.”

“Is King alive?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

Nolan looked down the hallway before answering.

Then he said the words that changed everything.

“Because, Harper, I’m the man who took that picture.”

Share