Fairglass’s eyes, predictably, lit up. “Is this from your dad’s house?”
“It’s…” Ledger considered a lie but decided a dodge would be more convincing. “I’d rather not talk about that until I know more. Bell caused enough pain. I don’t want to jump the gun and cause more.”
Fairglass reached out his hand, and Ledger handed him the photos.
“I just want to know if you recognize anyone. Some of them might be before your time.”
Fairglass lifted the flap of the envelope and pulled out glossy squares. To his credit, the spark of avaricious glee on his face faded as he shuffled through the handful of images. Maybe fifteen? Not nearly as many as Ledger had gotten from Earl. Halfway through, he stopped, tapped them back into a neat pile, and wiped his forehead on his sleeve.
“Give me a second,” he said as he stood up. “I want to give my dad a call. He was… he was the editor when all this happened.”
Ledger knew that. He nodded politely. “Of course.”
He sat and drank his coffee while Fairglass went to make his call. It wasn’t great. Ledger wondered idly if he’d picked up a curse to never have good coffee again in the middle of all this. He supposed if that was the worst consequence, he couldn’t really complain.
Fairglass Senior lookedlike his son, right down to the fondness for nicotine-colored shirts, although in honor of retirement, he’d left off the tie and his collar undone. He’d told Ledger to call him Martin. That felt weird, given that Martin Fairglass had taught Ledger not to read the things reporters wrote about you.
“You said you found these in Conroy’s house?” Martin asked.
He fanned the photos out on the cleared-off desk. They somehow looked worse in the light of day—even when it was filtered through a small, grubby window. It made the invasion of privacy more garish.
Fairglass looked awkward. “He didn’t say that,” he admitted. “It’s obvious, though. Look at this.”
He shuffled the photos about and pulled out one. The man in the center of the frame was a tall bald man wearing neat round glasses. It was a figure off to the side that Fairglass pointed to, though.
“That’s Cally Lester,” he said. “She was a kindergarten teacher. Both Conroy children were in her class.”
They had been. Ledger remembered her. He’d not recognized her, though. The photo must have been taken after the car accident that left her on crutches.Thathe was pretty sure had been Bell. It had happened after she’d had Abigail in her class, and there had been… bad blood. He didn’t think she was who Earl had been interested in.
“I… just don’t want to say anything until I’m sure,” Ledger said. “Not after last time.”
Martin glanced at him. “You were right last time.”
“Didn’t do me much good.”
“Yeah,” Martin said. “Maybe people should have listened, but you were off your head. Ranting and raving about monsters and demons. You gave Syder a black eye.”
“Good,” Ledger said.
That wasn’t part of the act, but it slipped out. He didn’t remember ranting and raving. Not when he got there, at least. It must have been after the paramedics had drugged him. He wasn’t about to take it back, but…
“Bell got a lot of correspondence from some very disturbed people,” Ledger said. “I didn’t think it was anything, not at first, but I saw her picture.”
He pointed at the girl with her dog. Martin looked puzzled.
“That’s Eileen,” Fairglass said. “Eileen Farley. She died earlier this year, but it was a hit-and-run. Remember, Dad? The dog came home without her, and there was a search. You were in Reno with Mom and Uncle Rhett.”
Memory jogged, Martin nodded. “Three days it took to find her,” he said. “I remember. But why would you, Ledger?”
“I got a lot of Google alerts when Bell came back home,” Ledger lied. “I remember seeing her story after I clicked through on one of them. It just… felt weird.”
That got him a dubious grunt as Martin looked through the rest of the pictures. He lifted one of the more recent ones up to look at it, putting his glasses on the top of his head as he squinted. The teenager in the photo, bike tire hoisted up on his shoulder, grinned back as if he’d seen the photo being taken.
“This is…” He tapped the photo with one finger while he pursed his lips in thought. “You knew him, Dougie.”
“Douglas,” Fairglass corrected automatically, then looked at the photo. “Al… bert? Alvin? Delaney. That’s right. He was two years ahead of me at school. I remember when he died. He killed himself.”
“Are you sure?” Ledger asked as he leaned forward.
