When I glance back, he's still watching.
***
That night, the dress hangs on my closet door. The soft white fabric stands out against the dark wood, clean and simple.
I look at it for a long moment, arms crossed.
Good, I think. I'll stand out against all the dark suits. Usually, I let the work go in first and speak for me.
I adjust the hanger, so it sits perfectly centered on the door.
I step back, shoulders loose.
This time, they're going to remember me too.
I turn off the light.
Chapter forty-nine
Tom
Inudge the frame a centimeter to the left, then step back and check the line again.
The twelve prints hang in sequence along the gallery wall. Black and white. Same block, different angles, same faces recurring across three years. The bookstore owner's hands rest on the counter in the third frame—knuckles bent, light through the window catching the grain of the wood.
I move closer to the glass, check for smudges, find one faint mark near the corner. I wipe it with the edge of my shirt, smooth the fabric back down, step away again.
I stand in the center of the room and let the full sequence sit in my sight line. The work I buried in a folder for three years hangs under gallery lights now, waiting for strangers to look at it.
My stomach does a small, hard twist.
I check the spacing one more time. It's fine. I step back farther than I need to, hands in my pockets, then pull them out and brush them together like I'm shaking off dust that isn't there.
Heels click on concrete behind me.
I turn. A woman in a sharp charcoal jacket and low heels stops beside me, clipboard in hand. White hair pulled back, clean lines. I instantly stand straighter. She looks at the wall first, not at me.
"You must be Tom Bennett."
I nod. "I am."
"Martha Stanley." She extends her hand, grip firm and brief. "I've been through the submissions more times than I can count."
I wait. She's still looking at the wall.
"It reads like one place," she says. "Not a bunch of random shots. That's rarer than you'd think."
My shoulders loosen a notch. She's talking about sequence. Cohesion. Not just nice photos.
"Tell me about this block," she says.
"Six months of shooting," I say. "Three years ago. One block in the Bronx. Same vantage points, different seasons, different times of day."
She tilts her head toward the bookstore image. "Third generation?"
"Fourth, actually. The owner's grandfather opened it in 1952."
"And the muralist?" She gestures toward another frame.
