Final Vow, page 15
“Might as well follow up with the photographer,” I say carefully. “He stood out as odd to me. Worth talking to.”
Hanks nods and cranks the engine. “Let’s do it.”
I pull up the address in my contacts. “Plus, who knows? Maybe he captured something useful.”
CHAPTER 23
Cannon Beach is postcard-pretty as the sun drifts lower in the sky, limning the iconic Haystack Rock in orange light. We take the first exit and roll through the small downtown strip. Galleries, boutiques, a bookstore, and restaurants line the main drag, their doors propped open to the lovely weather as tourists mill about.
Shadow has his whole head hanging out the back window, deeply huffing the breeze and earning smiles from passersby.
“Up there on the right.” I point toward a narrow storefront wedged between a fudge shop and a place selling beachwear. A sign above the entrance reads “Adams Photography” in sleek, minimalist lettering. The windows display large prints—a dramatic black-and-white shot of twisted driftwood and the silhouette of Haystack Rock at sunset with colors so saturated they border on surreal.
We find parking half a block down and thread our way along the crowded street, only to find the gallery door locked. A small placard in the window lists hours that suggest it should be open, but the interior lights are dim. I cup my hands against the glass and peer inside. More photographs line the walls—I can make out shapes but not details.
Hanks finds a buzzer and jabs it with his thumb.
We wait. Shadow stands at my side, ears pricked forward.
A minute passes. Hanks is about to press the buzzer again when movement catches my eye—someone descending an interior staircase at the back of the gallery. A figure emerges from the shadows and weaves between display pedestals toward us.
The lock clicks. The door swings open.
Booker Adams blinks at us like we’ve woken him from a nap, though it’s nearly three in the afternoon. He’s thin and angular, with a shaved head and geometric glasses. Mid-forties, I’d guess, though he has the kind of face that could skew younger or older. He’s wearing a black turtleneck and fitted slacks.
“Yes?” His tone says we’ve interrupted something important.
“Booker Adams?” Hanks flashes his badge. “Detective Hanks, Nightfall PD. This is Officer Mercer and her K-9, Shadow. We’d like to ask you a few questions about the Grant-Winters wedding.”
Booker ignores the detective and instead glances at Shadow, his face softening.
“Oh, he’s beautiful.” He says it like he’s appraising a work of art. “German shepherd, yes? I’ve done pet portraits in my time. The coloring on this one…” He trails off, tilting his head as if framing a shot.
Shadow’s tail wags once, accepting the compliment with his usual dignity.
“So, we can come in?” Hanks grumbles.
Booker steps aside, gesturing us into the quiet gallery. “I suppose. Let me get the lights.”
He moves to a panel on the wall and the space brightens, revealing the full scope of his work. I take it in as we follow him deeper inside. Moody coastal landscapes dominate one wall, all fog and dramatic cliffs and lonely figures silhouetted against churning seas. Another section features close-ups of a weathered hand gripping rope. The texture of barnacles on a pier post. I like it.
Hanks has stopped in front of one particular photograph and is staring at it with barely concealed disdain. I drift over to see what’s caught his attention.
It’s a public restroom. Not just any restroom—one of those grungy ones you find at beach access points, all concrete and metal fixtures. The walls are covered in graffiti, crude drawings, and profanity. Booker has shot it in harsh black and white, every crack and stain rendered in unflinching detail.
“That’s part of my Low Spaces series,” Booker says, materializing at Hanks’s elbow. “The places we try not to look too hard at.”
Hanks grunts. He looks like he’d rather forget this particular place.
I stifle a smile and guide us back on track. “Mr. Adams, we’re following up on the death of Samantha Winters. You were the photographer at her wedding, right?”
Booker drifts toward the center of the gallery, positioning himself between two display pedestals like he’s staging the conversation. He crosses his arms. “Yes. Tragic. Poor young woman.”
“Did you see this man on Saturday at the venue?” I pull out my phone and find the photo of Grayson that we’ve been showing around.
Booker takes my phone and peers at the screen. He tilts it this way and that, squinting.
“The white balance is atrocious,” he murmurs.
“Did you see him?” Hanks repeats, an annoyed edge creeping into his voice.
Booker hands back my phone with a slight shake of his head. “No. I don’t recall this face. But I was absorbed in my work, you understand. When I’m shooting, the rest of the world fades away. I see only light, shadow, composition.”
Hanks sighs. “Well, did you see him in your work?” He mimes taking a shot.
He looks at the detective over the thick rims of his glasses. “Well, now, I haven’t begun to comb through the raw footage yet, so I really can’t say.”
Hanks and I exchange curious glances. “Could we get copies of that?” I ask. “The raw files, everything you shot?”
He lifts his chin and throws his shoulders back. “That’s not done. I don’t share the raw files—not even with the wedding couples themselves.” His tone has gone frosty. “Everyone devalues a photographer’s work these days. They think because they have a phone with a camera, they understand what goes into capturing a moment. The hours of editing. The artistic vision. They want to slap filters on things and post them to Instagram. It’s degrading.”
“We’re not looking to print these out for a scrapbook,” Hanks snaps. “We’re looking for evidence.”
“Please,” I try, appealing to his sense of importance. “You might have captured a shot that leads us straight to the killer. Your photographs might be the key to getting justice for Samantha Winters.”
Booker holds my gaze for a long moment, one brow arched as if considering what a feather in his cap that might be. He spins on his heel and calls back, “Fine. Wait here.”
Hanks gives me a flat look. “Laying it on kinda thick.”
I shrug. “It worked, didn’t it?”
He smirks. “That it did.”
Booker disappears back up the staircase. His footsteps thud overhead, followed by the muffled sounds of drawers opening and closing.
I wander while we wait, studying his artwork more closely.
“This guy,” Hanks mutters, coming up beside me. He’s still eyeing the restroom photograph with visible distaste.
“The work isn’t bad,” I say quietly. “He’s talented. Just…”
“Pretentious.”
“I was going to say eccentric.”
Hanks grunts.
Footsteps descend the stairs and Booker reappears, a small thumb drive pinched between his fingers. He crosses to me and places it in my palm with the gravity of someone handing over a priceless artifact.
“Sixteen hundred raw files. Unedited. Unfiltered.” He fixes me with a stern look. “Do not publish these anywhere. Do not share them. Do not post them. They are for investigative purposes only.”
“Of course.” I nod solemnly. “We appreciate your cooperation.”
He lingers, watching me seal the drive in an evidence baggie and pocket it. We thank him for his time, but he trails close behind as we head toward the door, as though there’s something else he wants to say. Hanks is halfway outside when Booker finally pipes up.
“I must say…” He pauses, wetting his lips. “Photographing grief is fascinating. The way emotion transforms a face. The rawness of it.” He leans slightly closer. “How does one become a crime scene photographer?”
I blink. Beside me, Hanks goes very still.
“Call the station,” he says flatly.
Booker nods, apparently satisfied with this nonanswer. “I may do that. There’s something so compelling about documenting tragedy. The intersection of violence and vulnerability. Life and death, frozen in a single frame.”
Yesterday, I might have flagged him based on this conversation alone. But watching him wax poetic, I don’t get the feeling I’m talking to a killer. Just an odd guy with an inflated sense of his own genius.
“We’ll be in touch if we have more questions,” I say. “Thank you for your time, and for the files.” I follow Hanks and Shadow outside.
The lock clicks behind us, and the salty wind hits my face. Shadow trots beside me as we head back to the car, tongue lolling.
“Weird guy,” Hanks says.
“Very.”
“But not likely our killer.” He sounds almost disappointed.
I shake my head. “No, I don’t think so. Just a photographer who likes capturing things most people would rather not look at.”
Hanks unlocks the sedan, and I let Shadow into the back.
“Sixteen hundred photos,” Hanks says, sliding behind the wheel. “That’s going to be a fun afternoon.”
I chuckle as I climb into the passenger seat. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and the killer will be caught mid-act in the background of a shot.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice.” Hanks starts the engine. “But when has anything about this case been easy?”
He’s not wrong.
CHAPTER 24
Hanks plugs Booker’s thumb drive into his computer, and the files populate on-screen. Sixteen hundred photographs.
“Let’s go Dutch,” Hanks says, clicking through folders. “I’ll take the first eight hundred, you take the second half.”
He grabs another thumb drive from his desk drawer and starts copying files. Shadow sighs heavily from his spot on the leather couch, as if he understands exactly how tedious this is going to be.
When the transfer finishes, Hanks ejects the drive and hands it to me. I pop it into my laptop, and we spend the next hour in silence, broken only by the tap of keys as we scroll and the ticking of the clock.
Hanks yawns and stretches his arms overhead. I glance up, bleary-eyed, as he checks his wristwatch. “Let’s call it, kid. Go home. We’ll reconvene first thing tomorrow, compare notes.”
I pocket the drive and stand, cracking my back. It’s been a long day. “Sounds good.” Shadow shakes himself and hops down from the couch.
Hanks smiles as he grabs his blazer from the coatrack. “Rosie’ll be happy I’m home for dinner for once. Might even get to eat it while it’s still hot.”
I smile. “Tell her I said hi.”
“Will do.” He waves me off. “Now get out of here before I find something else for us to do.”
Shadow’s already at the door, tail wagging, ready to go. I clip his leash to his harness, and we head out through the bullpen, past the mostly empty desks.
Outside, Main Street is still busy with the usual summer crowd. The sun hangs low over the ocean, casting long shadows across the sidewalk, but it won’t set for another couple of hours yet. I remember how strange that felt when I first moved here as a teenager—those endless summer evenings that stretched on and on.
When we lived in New Canaan, we basically went to bed with the sun, given our living conditions were so crude. Here, Hope and I would sit on the porch with Grandma and Grandpa, watching the sky turn pink and orange and purple, marveling at how much of the world existed outside those compound walls.
We turn off Main and start up the hill toward the historic district. The crowds thin as the sidewalk steepens, replaced by tree-lined streets and old Victorian houses with wraparound porches and peaked roofs.
The house comes into view, and something in my chest loosens. The porch swing sways gently in the breeze, and Grandma’s flower boxes overflow with petunias and trailing ivy.
Shadow picks up the pace, bounding up the front steps. I push through the front door, and he immediately starts tapping his paws, eager to greet everyone.
“Hey” I call out.
“Welcome home!” Hope’s voice floats back.
I unclip Shadow’s harness, and he tears off toward Hope. I hang his leash on the hook by the door, then toe off my boots and add them to the pile of shoes cluttering the entryway.
I follow the smell of garlic and onions to the kitchen, where steam rises from a pot on the stove. Hope stands at the counter chopping vegetables, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun. Rachel sits at the small table by the window, a glass of lemonade sweating in front of her, while Grandma Gloria coos over my dog, ruffling his fur.
“Smells amazing,” I say, leaning against the doorframe.
“Chicken stir-fry.” Hope gestures with her knife toward the stairs. “Go change. It’ll be ready in ten.”
I don’t argue. Upstairs, I peel off my uniform and pull on loose shorts and an oversized T-shirt. When I come back down, the table is set and everyone’s gathering.
Dinner is easy, the four of us crowded around the table, passing dishes and talking over one another. Shadow inhales his kibble in the corner, then materializes beside Rachel’s chair, resting his chin on her knee and gazing up at her with liquid brown eyes.
“Don’t you dare,” I tell her, but I’m smiling.
Rachel’s mouth twitches. She waits until I look away, then slips him a piece of chicken under the table.
I pretend not to notice.
She looks good, I realize. Tanned, her cheeks pink with sun. When she first arrived, she was pale and jumpy, flinching at loud noises and struggling to meet anyone’s eyes. Now she’s wearing one of Hope’s sundresses, her hair loose around her shoulders, and there’s a softness to her that wasn’t there before.
“Another beach day?” I ask.
She nods, a small smile playing at her lips. “Hope showed me this cove with tide pools. We saw four starfish.”
“Fun.” I take a bite of stir-fry, chew, swallow. “I meant to tell you all, I talked to Agent Carver a couple of days ago.”
The shift is immediate. Rachel’s fork freezes halfway to her mouth. “Any word of Daniel?”
I wish I had better news for her. “No. Not yet.”
She nods slowly, but her head dips, her eyes dropping to her plate. The brightness from a moment ago dims. I feel bad that I brought it up.
I want to tell her it’s not her fault. That Daniel made his own choice when he got in that van. That she did everything she could. But we’ve had that conversation a dozen times, and the words don’t seem to help.
“I talked to Bernice today,” Rachel says quietly, pushing a piece of broccoli around her plate. “She’s okay.”
“Good.” I reach over and squeeze her hand. “That’s good.”
Grandma clears her throat and launches into a story about something that happened at her book club, and the tension eases. By the time we finish eating, Rachel’s smiling again, laughing at Grandma’s beef with some woman named Doris who apparently takes the romance novel discussions way too seriously.
We clean up together, then migrate to the living room. Hope grabs the remote and scrolls through options until she finds what she’s looking for—a reality show about wealthy women in designer clothes arguing over dinner reservations. Grandma settles into her usual corner of the couch with a contented sigh. Rachel curls up on the other end, and Shadow immediately wedges between them, head in Rachel’s lap.
“Traitor,” Hope mutters, dropping onto the middle cushion.
I grab my laptop and the thumb drive, then curl up in the armchair by the window. The sea breeze drifts in through the cracked glass, cool and salt-tinged. On the TV, a woman in stilettos is crying about a charity gala.
“You’re not watching?” Rachel asks.
“Working.” I hold up the thumb drive.
Hope throws a piece of popcorn at me. “You’re no fun.”
I catch it and pop it into my mouth. “Never claimed to be.”
The popcorn bowl makes its rounds while I plug in the drive and wait for the files to load. I’ve already gone through about a third of them.
I cross my legs and angle my screen so that the others can’t see potential evidence and get back to work.
It’s mind-numbing. Click, squint, zoom in, move on. The photos blur together after a while—endless shots of table settings and flower arrangements, smiling shots of the bridesmaids, Samantha getting her makeup done. Every now and then, something genuinely odd appears: a shadow on a wall that Booker apparently found compelling, a broken champagne glass on the grass, one inexplicable shot of a worm crawling through the dirt.
What was he thinking? Surely Samantha and Benji wouldn’t have wanted that photo.
The TV drones on in the background. The women on-screen are now arguing about seating arrangements at someone’s birthday party. Rachel laughs at something, and Shadow’s tail thumps lazily against the couch cushion. I reach over and grab a handful of popcorn, eyes still on my laptop, and keep clicking.
The evening light shifts and softens. My focus drifts. I blink hard, roll my neck. I’m about to call it a night when something catches my attention—a figure in the background of a shot, half obscured by a hedge.
I sit up a little straighter and enlarge the image. The figure is walking away from the house, heading toward what looks like the parking area. Blond hair, tall, lanky build.
Grayson Taylor.
I right-click and check the photo’s metadata. The time stamp reads 1:47 p.m.
I make a note of it. Kim discovered the body around 2:20 p.m. This might support Grayson’s claim that he confronted Samantha and then left, leaving time for someone else to have killed her in the meantime. Or this could be Grayson fleeing the scene of his crime. I need to cross-check what time Benji and Maryanne said Samantha popped her head into the groom’s suite to narrow down our timeline.
The next batch of photos shows Booker moving closer to the house. Through the gardens, up the back steps, into the rear hallway. The images are time-stamped in sequence, each one a minute or less apart. He must have been wandering, looking for interesting shots.
