Rose
Phillip strides into the kitchen, moving fast enough that his unbuttoned suit jacket swings open with each step. This doesn’t shock me. I’ve summoned him here and generally, when I do that, there’s good reason.
His gaze shoots to Rae, then back to me. “What's going on? Is everything all right?"
Everything is not all right. At least by my way of thinking. However, even I know this is not necessarily on the Phillip-scale of catastrophe. He’s worried about the tangible things. Am I sick, has someone died, did a pipe burst, or some such event that needed his immediate attention.
In other words, life-changing.
I could argue this is life-changing. At least emotionally speaking. "It's not what you're thinking," I tell him. "I need to ask you something."
My son, the one whose poker face makes him an excellent lawyer, gawks at me. “You hauled me here to ask a question? I thought there was an emergency."
"Well, dear, I did say it wasn't an emergency."
"Well, dear, you also said you needed me here ASAP. What was I supposed to think?"
I wave him off, gesturing to the empty chair beside me at the table. I point at the envelope sitting in front of Rae. “The photos you picked up.”
“What about them?”
I could spend time explaining the missing negatives and Rae’s multiple trips to the store, but why bother? “After some back and forth with the store manager, we realized there were three photos missing.”
He rolls his bottom lip, then gives his head a hard shake. “Forgive me, but I don’t see how the photo store not giving you all the prints warrants calling me out of my office in the middle of the day.”
Ignoring my urge to check him on his condescending tone, I lift the envelope. “You paid for the full thirty-six and they didn't have any other wayward prints anywhere."
“And? What?” He glances at Rae, whose gaze is pinned to him, then returns his attention to me. “You think I took them?"
"I didn't say that."
He laughs, but it's one of those snorting, sarcastic ones that contain little humor. "You didn't have to, Mom. I'm the one who picked them up. It’s not rocket science. But I didn't touch them. I didn't even look in the envelope. I brought them over here and left them on the table. This is just the type of thing I've been warning you about."
I’ve spent more than half my life living with a lawyer. If my son doesn’t think I know how to combat a good spin, he hasn’t been paying attention. “Stop right there. This isn’t about people coming in and out of my house. You've already put enough security in place that I'm afraid to go to the bathroom without you watching."
“I opted against bathroom cameras,” he deadpans.
I give him my best don't-sass-me glare and he holds his hands in mock surrender. "Sorry. Again, it wasn't me who took those prints. Was your housekeeper here? Refrigerator repair man?"
"No one had access to the house, but you and Jeremy."
Rae snaps her head to me, but her mouth remains firmly closed. She doesn’t need to speak. Her laser-sharp stare says it all and my stomach does a vicious flip.
“Jeremy,” I say, “stopped here for my car on the way to the airport.”
“Mom, now you think Jeremy stole the photos? Maybe they just plain got lost at the store.”
“Not according to Harbinger’s. And Jeremy had to come into the kitchen for the spare set of car keys.”
The room falls silent, each of us clearly considering the idea of my son walking through my house and rifling through photos.
Phillip taps two fingers against the table. "Before we make accusations, why would he even want them?"
I open the envelope, thumb through the photos and hand over the three in question. "See for yourself. This is apparently a party in Myles's suite. Before you ask, I was not there. At least I don't remember being there and considering it was the weekend of the fire, you can bet I'd remember that."
He takes the photos, sets them side by side on the table, and peruses them. "Dad took these?"
"As far as I know."
He taps the photo with the older man. "Who's this?"
"I have no idea. He’s not the issue.” I pick up the one with Loretta and Jackson in the background. "Look behind the older man. That's Loretta."
“Oh-kay.”
He gives me a look that screams of brutally controlled frustration and I jab the photo at him. "The man whose lap she’s sitting on? That’s soon-to-be-elected-president Jackson Harlan.”
My son's jaw drops and I’ll admit it, I’m feeling smug. He’s been treating me like a half-wit since he walked in.
Having lived in Hollywood his entire life, my son is not easy to stun. It's more than likely one of the things that makes him a good attorney. On a personal level, it's not necessarily an asset. He tends to be a cynic, and at times, downright insensitive.
After a few seconds, he closes his mouth. "Wow. Just wow. "
"Exactly," I say. "We don't want to jump to conclusions. It's a party and people could've been drinking and maybe the whole thing is innocent."
"You don't believe that any more than I do."
"I don't know what I believe. We have missing photos, Harbinger’s is sure they gave us all thirty-six prints, and you didn't take any out of the envelope. Sometime between when you left the photos on this table and Rae and I looked at them, three went missing. We need to find out why."
Phillip slides his chair back and stands up. “I can’t tell you why, but we can confirm who.”