Chapter 9: What We Let Them Photograph
That afternoon, the story appeared online.
Mara found it while we were sitting in a diner near the county courthouse. Daddy had ordered grilled cheese for me, but he hadn't touched his coffee. The diner smelled like bacon grease and floor cleaner, and a television over the counter showed a weather map with a red band of storms moving across the county.
The headline called the gala a “remarkable success.”
Underneath it was a photograph of the ballroom.
The cream-and-gold doors stood open. The banquet table glittered. Beatrice wore her silver gown and smiled toward the camera, one hand resting near the floral centerpiece.
I was not in the picture.
That made me feel worse.
Mara scrolled down. The article said the event had raised enough money to expand meal access across the county. It praised Beatrice's leadership and thanked anonymous volunteers.
Daddy read over her shoulder.
“They're using the report already,” he said.
“They published before the review.”
“Then the review is for show.”
Mara locked her phone. “Not necessarily. But the public story will make it harder to correct.”
The waitress brought my plate. I picked up half the sandwich, then put it down.
Daddy noticed.
“You can eat,” he said.
“I know.”
“I'm not mad.”
“I know.”
He waited.
I looked at the photograph on Mara's phone. “Why didn't they take a picture of the west room?”
“Because it wasn't ready,” Mara said.
“What was in it?”
“Empty tables.”
I thought of the boy with the red sleeve. “Maybe he was there.”
Daddy's hand closed around his coffee cup.
Mara spoke carefully. “Nora, we have to decide what we do next. A reporter contacted me.”
Daddy looked up. “No.”
“She wants to see the records.”
“No.”
“She won't need to speak to Nora.”
“No,” he repeated. “Not until we know what she plans to publish.”
Mara accepted that without arguing. “Then we give her the documents without names. The meal sheet can be redacted.”
Daddy stared at the rain beginning to spot the window.
“What if they say I brought Nora there for attention?”
“They may say whatever protects them,” Mara answered.
I had heard adults say my name when they thought I was asleep. Sometimes they said it like a problem. Sometimes they said it like proof.
Daddy lowered his voice. “I don't want them turning her into a picture.”
Mara leaned back. “Neither do I.”
The agreement between them was quiet, but I felt it settle over the table.
The waitress returned with a check. Daddy paid in cash. When we stepped outside, a woman in a blue scarf stood near the courthouse steps.
May you like
I knew her before she looked at me.
She had one hand wrapped around
