Page 49 of The Golden Hour
He pauses, and I know it’s so I can say something. Ask a question. Pretend any of it matters, that I actually care. I don’t have it in me, though, so I only nod.
“All right, then. Let’s see… Abby and Michelle are nurses. Pediatric and ICU. Sydney is an elementary school teacher, like my mom was. All three are married with kids. I have seven nieces and nephews. The oldest is ten, the youngest a year and a half.”
“Seven?” I echo in spite of myself. I’ve never been around kids and wouldn’t know the first thing about handling one, let alone multiples.
He grins. “My sisters are rock stars. I don’t know how they do it. Kids kinda freak me out.”
“Me too,” I admit.
“Yeah? Well, there you go. We have one thing in common. We’re afraid of children. I blame too many horror movies when I was a kid.”
I nod. “The Omen.”
“Exorcist.”
“Children of the Corn.”
Finn’s whole body shudders. “Pet Cemetery.”
Laughter bubbles out of me. “Okay, we can stop now.”
He grins. “Another thing in common—not a fan of horror movies?”
“At least ones with evil kids.” I pause. “How did you know you wanted to be a photographer?”
Surprised eyes flicker my way. Hell, I’m surprised, too. Why did I ask that? Who cares?
“It was an accident, actually. I was a sophomore at UC Berkeley, majoring in journalism, when one night at a party a friend asked me to take some photos. It was the first time I held a Nikon.”
“Love at first touch?”
“And sight. I was hooked. When I looked at the world through a lens, it made sense in a way it hadn’t before. It was like magic.”
“And now?”
He shrugs. “What matters is that now I have the financial freedom to live how I want.”
“Wow. That’s sad.”
He stiffens. “Why?”
“Besides the fact you just reduced the value of art to a dollar bill?” I laugh bitterly. “Who am I to judge, though. Good for you. Now you have the financial freedom to pursue other lifelong goals like blackmail and entrapment. And who cares about collateral damage, right?”
The air in the car turns frosty.
“Molly says I should trust you, Callisto, but it’s hard when you make me wonder what your motives are. Do you want the same things I do? Or do you want to stand in my way?”
26
The rest of the drive is tense and silent. It’s not a short trip, either, at just over an hour, and for the last twenty minutes we’ve been driving through L.A.’s version of the middle of nowhere—the Angeles National Forest. Contrary to the name, so far I’ve seen more tumbleweeds than trees.
Every time I have the urge to ask him what we’re doing, I bite my cheek until it passes.
By the time Finn pulls off the road into a small parking lot, I’ve consumed my coffee, water, and granola bar. Any curiosity about our destination takes a backseat to my screaming bladder. Thankfully there’s a standard-looking campground attached to the parking lot. With bathrooms—rudimentary but clean.
Agony gone, I slip my sunglasses on and step into the sun, finally able to take in details of my surroundings. Lo and behold, craggy trees dot the area, thickening to a forest behind the campground and rising in the distance to low mountains. I take a deep breath, greedily sucking the smog-less air and fading coolness of the morning.
Footsteps approach me, crunching over gravel. I don’t have to look to know it’s him. The way he moves is familiar. Like a song I hate to love and would never admit listening to.
