Page 52 of Sutton's Shadow

Bethany studied the man’s face. “He looks a little nervous. He’s sweating.”

“Yes, that’s true. But there is also an air of determination, isn’t there?”

Bethany nodded. “Yeah. And even though he knows this is all fake, he still looks worried. As if he knows this is a life-or-death situation and only he can change the outcome.”

Sutton smiled at her assessment. “Exactly.”

Bethany went quiet, a furrow developing between her brows as she contemplated her next question. “But I don’t understand your purpose here. I mean, if this had been a real disaster, why would you be needed here? Why would you be taking pictures of the bad?”

Sutton sighed, reluctant to get too deep with the girl. Her mind flashed to Colombia, wondering for the thousandth time since that day why she’d disobeyed Liam’s orders and continued to take pictures.

“We as humans are visual people. We like to see the world in all its technicolor splendor. The good and the bad. I could give you the statistics of click bait, which type of pictures people want to view the most. But that’s not why I do it.”

“Then why? If it’s not to make the big bucks selling your pictures, why do you do it?”

“I do it to document the scene. Whether it’s a natural disaster or a wedding, I’m there to document it. To let the world know that this happened to these people. A picture can be proof of great love, in the instance of a wedding. Or it can be proof of a great atrocity like during 9/11.” Internally, she winced, thinking of the pictures of Colombia she still hadn’t shown the world. The biggest atrocity she’d witnessed, and she still sat on those images, too afraid to release them.

Shaking off those thoughts, she continued her explanation. “A photograph freezes a moment in time so we can take a minute to enjoy them or learn from them. It can transport us to another time or place so we can understand the events that transpired. It can trigger a memory, whether good or bad. You feel something. No two moments are ever the same. The camera is there to record and preserve the moment so it can live forever.

“Every human emotion can have a place in photography. Just like we analyzed the face of that man, it evoked an emotion in us. It communicated to us exactly what was happening at that instant in time. Look at this one,” Sutton said, scrolling to a picture from a wedding she’d photographed a few weeks ago. The bride and groom were gazing into each other’s eyes with loving adoration. “A moment captured that conveys the emotions they felt. Every time they look at this picture, they’ll remember that feeling.”

Bethany was quiet as she stared at the picture. “But what about the bad? Why would we want to remember the bad stuff that happens?”

“So we can learn from it. History has a way of repeating itself. I always hope the images of the bad that I’ve taken over the years will go a long way toward seeing that it doesn’t happen again. Or that we can learn from it. By exposing the bad, we can appreciate the good even more. For instance, we can take a picture of a home that was destroyed in a tornado. That’s the bad, right?” Bethany nodded. “But the good could be that no one died. Whoever lived in that house may have lost all their possessions but not their lives or their loved one’s lives. And just maybe, every time they look at that image, they will remember how blessed they truly are.”

“Is that why you do it? To remember the good among the bad?”

“That’s part of the reason. But I also feel the need to document the moment. To have proof that a particular point in time happened. My images could one day be the only evidence that something important transpired.”

Her breath caught in her throat, the guilt suffocating her. She had the only evidence of what happened in Colombia, and she lived in fear of retribution. But at what cost? If that group was still active, still killing, still kidnapping young girls, was keeping the pictures hidden really the best choice of action.

She studied Bethany, who seemed deep in thought. There was something in her eyes that spoke of an unpleasant experience. Sutton wondered if the group home she’d spent twenty-five days in had been horrible, or if the troubled expression was a carryover from growing up with her mother. She remembered the girls in the village in Colombia. Some had that same darkness in their eyes, but it was being slowly abolished by hope. At least until those men had raided their peace.

She’d always tried to be a voice for those who couldn’t speak up but hadn’t done that for those girls in the jungle. Shame swamped her.

What if one of those girls had been Bethany? Even having known her only a short time, she knew she’d do everything possible to fight for her. Shouldn’t she give those Colombian girls the same consideration? Her heart screamed yes, but her head still trembled in fear.

Movement by the hole in the rubble caught her attention. Bethany handed the camera back to her just as the cable winch moved again, this time to lower the human-sized basket that would help to bring up the victim. But Sutton’s attention was on the young girl assisting her, noticing the tremble in her hand as she passed the camera over.

“Are you okay?” she asked, concerned for the girl.

It was as if a shutter had slammed shut on her expression. Bethany’s face blanked before a huge smile turned up her lips. A smile that looked as genuine as someone trying to sell a bridge in Brooklyn.

“I’m fine. This is all so fascinating. I’m learning so much from you already.”

Sutton tilted her head, observing the girl, who refused to make eye contact as she fumbled with the strap on her camera bag. Deciding it wasn’t her place to push, she turned instead to the rescue playing out before her. She was so absorbed in the action that she didn’t hear Wyatt approach until he spoke from beside her.

“Hey.” His deep voice penetrated her single-minded determination to push any lingering bad thoughts out, causing her to jolt so badly the viewfinder hit her in the eye. She cursed, rubbing the pain. Wyatt’s rumbling chuckle only pissed her off, and she sent him her best scathing glare.

Smiling, he held his hands up in surrender. “Sorry. Thought you heard me coming.”

“Whatever,” she huffed.

He laughed, exposing that dimple that did dirty things to her mind. How could a simple divot in a man’s face affect her so much? It wasn’t right. She struggled to contain the full body quiver that wanted to wash over her at that stupid dimpled smile. But she couldn’t suppress the flush that hit her cheeks, remembering the wicked things his mouth had done to her. Which then made her reflect on their night together. The laughter, the closeness, the touches. The orgasms.

His smirk made her think he knew exactly where her mind had just traveled, and she pretended to study the images on her camera to hide her blush.

“You ladies get any good shots?”

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