Chapter 2 - The Man Behind the Camera
I arrived at the abandoned studio at 6:57 the next morning with my phone recording inside my coat.
The front door was already open.
That was the first thing I didn’t like.
The second was the man standing beneath a broken ceiling light.
He looked about forty-eight.
Short dark hair.
Gray at the temples.
Light stubble.
Dark jacket.
He held a manila envelope.
“You’re Claire Bennett.”
“And you are?”
“Elliot Kane.”
The name meant nothing to me.
Then he said:
“Your husband hired me.”
Every instinct I had told me to leave.
Instead, I stepped inside.
“You took the photographs?”
“I arranged them.”
“Different thing.”
His eyebrows rose slightly.
“So you still know the language.”
“Why am I here?”
He looked toward the doorway behind me.
“You weren’t followed?”
“I asked why I’m here.”
Elliot handed me the envelope.
Inside were invoices.
Three payments.
All from a consulting company called Northridge Strategic Solutions.
Twenty thousand dollars.
Fifteen thousand.
Another fifteen.
“What is Northridge?”
“A shell.”
“Owned by?”
“You already know.”
“Say it.”
“Adrian.”
The studio suddenly felt smaller.
I looked at Elliot.
“You manufactured evidence of an affair.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he paid me.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“It answers most questions in my line of work.”
I wanted to hate him.
It would have been easier.
But there was something in his face I recognized.
Fear.
Not guilt.
Fear.
“What changed?”
He glanced again toward the entrance.
“I was hired six weeks ago. Adrian wanted photographs showing you with another man. He provided reference images, your schedule, clothes, jewelry details.”
“Who was the man?”
“Actor.”
“Name?”
“Not important.”
“It is to me.”
“Claire, listen.”
His voice sharpened.
“This was supposed to be a private leverage operation. Pictures. Messages. Enough to pressure you into signing a settlement.”
“You committed fraud.”
“Yes.”
“And now you’ve developed a conscience?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
Elliot leaned closer.
“I developed self-preservation.”
He removed another page from the envelope.
It was an email.
From Martin Voss.
I read it twice.
Once Mrs. Bennett signs, all secondary contractors should be considered disposable. No retained files. No communication.
Disposable.
Elliot tapped the word.
“Voss called me three days ago.”
“What did he want?”
“He wanted every original file destroyed.”
“And?”
“I told him they were.”
“But they weren’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because people who pay you to destroy evidence usually need someone to blame when the evidence gets discovered.”
Smart.
Unethical.
But smart.
“What did Adrian actually tell you?”
Elliot hesitated.
Then he said, “He told me you had already cheated.”
I laughed once.
“He said he needed photographs because the real affair was impossible to prove.”
“And you believed him?”
“I didn’t care.”
“At least you’re consistent.”
He accepted that.
I examined the invoices.
Dates.
Payment identifiers.
Account references.
“Are these originals?”
“Copies.”
“Where are the originals?”
“Safe.”
“Where?”
He smiled without humor.
“I’m not that stupid.”
I slid them back into the envelope.
“Why warn me about the hotel footage?”
“Because they’re cleaning the chain.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
“Adrian. Voss. Maybe someone else.”
“Vanessa?”
He looked away.
That was enough.
“What about her?”
“I saw her with Voss.”
“Where?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“Doing what?”
“Meeting.”
“That isn’t illegal.”
“No.”
His gaze returned to mine.
“But Adrian wasn’t there.”
A cold thought formed.
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Were they involved?”
“I said I don’t know.”
My phone vibrated.
Natalie.
I declined it.
Elliot noticed.
“You told someone where you were.”
“Yes.”
“I said come alone.”
“I did come alone. That doesn’t mean I came stupid.”
For the first time, he almost smiled.
Then headlights moved across the broken windows.
Elliot froze.
“Did you bring someone?”
“No.”
A car stopped outside.
Elliot grabbed my arm.
“Back room.”
I pulled away.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Claire.”
A door slammed outside.
Male voices.
One.
Maybe two.
Elliot shoved the envelope at me.
“Take it.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll leave through the alley.”
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know.”
He did.
I could see that.
The front door opened.
Elliot disappeared through a side hall.
I slipped behind a photography backdrop.
Footsteps entered.
A familiar voice spoke.
Martin.
“Check upstairs.”
My pulse slammed.
A second man walked toward the rear.
Martin remained near the front.
I could see him through a narrow gap.
He took out his phone.
“Nothing yet.”
Pause.
“No, Adrian. If Kane copied the files, we’ll handle it.”
My hand tightened around the envelope.
Another pause.
Then Martin said something I did not expect.
“You should have listened to Vanessa. Claire was always going to notice.”
Silence.
“She knows evidence.”
Another pause.
Martin lowered his voice.
“The divorce was supposed to be the easy part.”
The easy part.
Meaning there was another part.
The man upstairs called out.
“Clear.”
Martin swore softly.
They left.
I waited two full minutes before moving.
Elliot did not return.
I exited through the alley and drove three blocks before calling Natalie.
“You sound terrible,” she said.
“Martin was there.”
“What?”
“He knows about Elliot.”
“Who’s Elliot?”
“The investigator.”
“Claire, come home.”
“I need a lawyer first.”
“You need the police.”
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because I have copies from a criminal who will disappear the second police are involved, and I don’t know how deep this goes.”
“Claire.”
“I need somebody Martin can’t intimidate.”
I knew exactly who.
Rebecca Sloan.
We had worked together years earlier during a corporate embezzlement case.
Rebecca was aggressive, brilliant, and one of the few attorneys I trusted completely.
She met me at her office at nine.
By 9:20, she had stopped interrupting.
By 9:35, she had stopped taking notes.
By 9:45, she said:
“Your husband is either very stupid or very scared.”
“Adrian isn’t stupid.”
“Then scared.”
“Of what?”
“That’s what we need to find out.”
I handed her Elliot’s documents.
Rebecca studied them.
“Can Kane testify?”
“If we keep him alive.”
Her eyes lifted.
“You think someone would hurt him?”
“I think Martin walked into an abandoned studio less than ten minutes after I arrived.”
“That answers my question.”
She stood.
“We file an emergency preservation motion today.”
“For the hotel footage?”
“For everything.”
“We tip them off.”
“They already know you know.”
She was right.
By noon, Rebecca had filed notices demanding preservation of electronic devices, corporate communications, security footage, financial records, and all source material related to the alleged affair.
Adrian called me at 12:17.
I answered.
“You hired Rebecca Sloan.”
“Yes.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“You fabricated adultery evidence.”
He sighed.
“Claire, this can still end quietly.”
“How?”
“Sign the settlement.”
“What settlement?”
“House stays with me. You take two million. We waive further claims.”
Two million.
Our joint estate was worth far more.
“What happens if I refuse?”
“Then the photos become public.”
There it was.
Not law.
Blackmail.
“You would humiliate me publicly with fake photographs?”
“They’re not fake.”
“Careful, Adrian.”
He went silent.
“For what?”
“Recorded line.”
He hung up.
Rebecca grinned when I told her.
“Beautiful.”
But the day got worse.
At four, the Lancaster Hotel responded to our preservation request.
Their relevant surveillance footage had been erased.
Routine storage cycling.
Except it had been erased two days early.
Someone had manually triggered deletion.
At six, Rebecca’s investigator found Northridge Strategic Solutions.
Registered address.
Mail drop.
Corporate agent.
And a bank trail linked indirectly to Adrian’s software company.
At eight, Natalie poured wine.
I didn’t drink it.
I kept examining the photographs.
Something bothered me.
The woman.
Her body proportions were too accurate to be random.
I scanned the images at high resolution.
Then I found it.
A faint scar near the left wrist.
I had the same scar.
From childhood.
No stranger could know that from ordinary photographs.
Unless the body itself was mine.
I searched old social media albums.
Nothing.
Corporate event photos.
Nothing.
Vacation photos.
Then I remembered.
Adrian had hundreds of private photographs.
Including one from Cabo three years earlier.
I found the cloud archive.
There I was on a balcony.
Same coat.
Same wrist angle.
Same scar.
They had taken my body from one image and reconstructed the hotel scene around it.
But something else appeared in the image metadata.
An embedded editing project identifier.
Not Elliot’s.
A second creator account.
I traced the username.
VBennett27.
Vanessa Bennett?
No.
Vanessa Cole.
Age twenty-seven.
V.
Bennett.
I stared at it.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
No voice.
Just breathing.
Then a woman whispered:
“Claire, you need to stop digging.”
“Vanessa?”
The line went silent.
A second later, a photograph arrived.
It showed me through Natalie’s living-room window.
Taken less than five minutes earlier.
May you like
Underneath were four words.
We can see you.
