Chapter 3 - Four Hours
The former banquet manager’s name was Frank Delaney.
He was sixty-three now and ran a small restaurant outside Hartford.
By noon the next day, he was sitting across from me in my office.
Leo stayed upstairs with Marcus.
I didn’t want him hearing every detail.
Not yet.
Frank held the old photograph with both hands.
“That’s him.”
“You’re sure?”
“I remember because it bothered me.”
“Why didn’t you stop it?”
His jaw tightened.
“I tried.”
Clara sat at the far end of the table.
She had barely spoken since morning.
Frank glanced at her.
Then back at me.
“One of your family members told me the boy was being taught responsibility.”
“Which family member?”
“I never got his name.”
“Gray hair?”
Frank nodded slowly.
“Older guy. Nice suit. Gold signet ring.”
Clara closed her eyes.
I noticed.
“Who was he?”
“I can’t tell you.”
I slammed my palm against the table.
“Stop saying that.”
Frank jumped.
Clara didn’t.
She looked tired.
Almost defeated.
Frank continued.
“Your boy came into the service area around three that afternoon. Someone had already put him in a little black vest.”
The image made me sick.
“He carried water first. Then plates. Later, glasses.”
“He was seven.”
“I know.”
“Where was Clara?”
Frank looked toward her.
“She stayed close.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Making sure he worked?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
Frank leaned forward.
“She kept trying to get him away.”
I turned toward Clara.
She wouldn’t look at me.
Frank continued.
“The older man stopped her every time.”
“What older man?”
“The one with the ring.”
I looked at Clara.
“Name him.”
Nothing.
Frank slid the photograph back toward me.
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“That picture isn’t right.”
I stared at him.
“You weren’t there yet.”
“I know.”
“No. I mean I personally saw you arrive.”
My skin prickled.
“What time?”
“Around ten to seven.”
I looked again at the handwritten 6:42.
Frank pointed at my image in the photograph.
“That part is fake.”
Clara stood suddenly.
“We’re done.”
“No, we’re not.”
“You have what you wanted.”
“I don’t even know what I’m looking at.”
Frank shifted uncomfortably.
“I knew the photographer.”
“Can we find him?”
“He died three years ago.”
My frustration surged.
Then Frank added, “His daughter kept his studio.”
Rachel was already typing.
Twenty minutes later, we had an address.
The photographer’s daughter, Vanessa Hart, opened the studio archive that afternoon.
Thousands of files remained on old storage drives.
It took two hours.
Then Vanessa stopped scrolling.
“I found the banquet.”
We crowded around her monitor.
Six hundred and twelve photographs.
I saw guests arriving.
Staff preparing tables.
My mother greeting donors.
Clara speaking with security.
And Leo.
My little boy carrying a silver tray.
Photo after photo.
3:17.
4:02.
4:55.
5:31.
6:18.
He looked more exhausted in every frame.
Then Vanessa clicked the photograph I had found.
6:42.
Me beside him.
Broken glass.
Blood.
Fear.
She zoomed in.
“Your son is original.”
“What about me?”
She studied the pixels.
Then she leaned back.
“You were added later.”
My mouth went dry.
“Why would somebody fake this?”
Vanessa clicked the next file.
It wouldn’t open.
Neither would the next one.
Ten minutes of photographs were missing.
Rachel frowned.
“Deleted?”
Vanessa nodded.
“Deliberately.”
Clara stood behind us, shaking.
I turned.
“What happened during those ten minutes?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
Before she could answer, Vanessa whispered:
“There may be another copy.”
We all looked at her.
“The ballroom had its own security system.”
Clara’s face collapsed.
And I finally understood something.
May you like
She wasn’t afraid of me finding a photograph.
She was afraid of me finding the video.
