Page 29 of Overexposed

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s my baby.”

“When can we expect to see you at the station to record your statement?” McBride asked.

Not groaning, I checked my phone for the time. It was almost ten. I hadn’t been home since the day before. “This afternoon? I’ll try to be there by four?”

I couldn’t promise sooner. I needed to check on Dad. One, I needed to confirm he hadn’t heard about last night and he had a check-up with the neurosurgeon this morning. No messages from him or Mom as yet, but that didn’t mean they weren’t coming.

“Four,” McBridge confirmed. “We’ll be there.” Then he let me out of the back of their black-and-white.

“Thank you,” I said to both of them. “For the ride.”

“You’re welcome.” The sergeant passed me a card. “Those are my numbers. If you need to reschedule, call me. If you need a ride to the station, call me.”

I frowned down at it. The more I thought about going in the more my stomach dropped. We’d tried pressing charges against Dillon before. He always seemed to slip through them or it came down to a case of he said, she said.

Dad barely remembered his attack. He couldn’t conclusively say it was Dillon. Particularly after the surgery and subsequent brain-damage diagnosis.

“I’ll do my best” was as close to a promise as I could get. “Thank you again.” After giving a jaunty little salute I was definitelynotfeeling, I slid the card into the pocket of my skirt before I headed toward my car.

A moment later, the door shut firmly and then the car pulled away. I blew out a breath as I circled my car to the driver’s side. At this point, I just wanted to?—

The driver’s side window was shattered inward. There was broken glass all over the seat. I swung my head around, scanning the area like I’d see the guilty party right here. Someone broke into my car. Why—oh shit. My stomach dropped and I went icy hot as I reached in to pull on the trunk release to pop it.

Even half expecting it, I couldn’t suppress the shudder at the empty space where my equipment should be. My camera. The backup battery. The lenses. Everything.

It was just gone.

Bracing my hands against the trunk lid, I tried to suck in air past the constriction on my throat. There wasn’t anything left in the trunk at all. Not even a scrap of material from the nylon bags.

The thief would have gotten all the memory cards too. The memory cards with the previous evening’s photos. Backing up a couple of steps, I sat abruptly on the curb and bent my head between my knees.

I was hyperventilating and I had to stop it. Right now. I couldn’t throw up or throw a fit. Even ordering myself to pull it together wasn’t making a dent. Surging back to my feet, I slammed the trunk shut and did another sweeping scan.

Of course there were no cameras right here. It was why I’dparkedhere. A little blind spot in the hotel security. Fuck. My. Life.

Right, blind spot except I had a dash cam. I hurried around to the front of the car and pulled open the door. Even before I leaned in to check behind the rearview mirror, I already knew—the camera was gone.

Of course it was.

Goddamn vicious, backstabbing, needle-dicked weasel. Not only had he taken my equipment, he’d taken that camera, and if he did that, he probably took the drive. I opened the glove compartment, and sure enough the drive was gone.

If I’d been at all thinking clearly the night before I would never have let Olivier walk me away. I had evidence of Dillon’s assault on camera. It wouldn’t have been great evidence cause the camera was aimed toward the front of the car, but it would have been something.

Gone.

A few thousand dollars’ worth of pictures. Maybe not a lot to some people, but it was another week of Dad’s treatments. Another payment to the hospital. Part of the rent for his house. It was a drop in the bucket of all the bills, but I needed every single damn drop.

Not only had I lost all of it, but I couldn’t just replace the equipment. That was thousands in equipment, memory cards, lenses…

I was lucky if I had lint to rub together in the bottom of my purse. What savings I’d had were gone. So were Dad’s. Every dime we had, we’d sunk into keeping him alive. Working freelance didn’t come with a great health plan. Mom worked as a nurse, and that got us some discounts, but the expenses just kept piling up.

Dad was at the doctor today.

He could need another round of treatments. More surgery. More care.

It all cost money. A lot of money.

Fucking Dillon. He attacked Dad and that put him in the hospital in the first place. The tumor wasn’t his fault, but right now, I didn’t care. Attacking mewashis fault. Taking my equipment was absolutely his fault.

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