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Back The Camera Never Lies Save as PDF
Chapters (54)
  1. Cover
  2. Epigraph
  3. One
  4. Two
  5. Three
  6. Four
  7. Five
  8. Six
  9. Seven
  10. Eight
  11. Nine
  12. Ten
  13. Eleven
  14. Twelve
  15. Thirteen
  16. Fourteen
  17. Fifteen
  18. Sixteen
  19. Seventeen
  20. Eighteen
  21. Nineteen
  22. Twenty
  23. Twenty-One
  24. Twenty-Two
  25. Twenty-Three
  26. Twenty-Four
  27. Twenty-Five
  28. Twenty-Six
  29. Twenty-Seven
  30. Twenty-Eight
  31. Twenty-Nine
  32. Thirty
  33. Thirty-One
  34. Thirty-Two
  35. Thirty-Three
  36. Thirty-Four
  37. Thirty-Five
  38. Thirty-Six
  39. Thirty-Seven
  40. Thirty-Eight
  41. Thirty-Nine
  42. Forty
  43. Forty-One
  44. Forty-Two
  45. Forty-Three
  46. Forty-Four
  47. Forty-Five
  48. Epilogue
  49. A Note from the Author
  50. Discussion Questions
  51. Acknowledgments
  52. About the Author
  53. Acclaim for David Rawlings
  54. Also by David Rawlings

So thanks for your gift. I’m so sorry I couldn’t have helped you overcome your demons, but I’m forever proud that you did.

Now I talk with my clients differently. The camera has taught me there’s always more to life than what we see, and I truly believe it.

Tears streamed down Daniel’s face.

I love you, Gramps.

Daniel

He stared at the blinking cursor. The book was complete. He folded Gramps’s letter and returned it to its envelope, and then his eyes settled on the family photo on which it had rested. His mother had taken it after their first counseling session. They were sitting on their sofa, the sun flooding over them from the deck. Milly beamed from between her parents, Daniel’s arm around her shoulder and resting on Kelly’s. Renewed hope shone in three pairs of eyes—a hope not clouded by an uncertain future but ready to take it on.

Epilogue

The music drifted from Milly’s bookshelf, filling her room instead of being pumped into her ears. She turned the tiny canister over, its metal cold in her fingers, a foreign object to someone whose photos appeared in her hand in an instant.

Life had been better the past two weeks than for as long as she could remember. The low cloud that seemed to hang over every conversation had lifted, and Mom and Dad were trying, which was all she’d ever wanted.

It was all because of Gramps’s camera. Dad had said as much when he gave it to her, telling her it had saved him. But he didn’t say how. She needed to know.

She studied the numbers on the film canister: ISO 400, whatever that meant. Twenty-four. The number of photos you could take. She’d taken five or six photos of Mom and Dad, but now the little red F on the camera told her the film was full. Dad couldn’t help himself—maybe that was why he’d given her a whole box of film.

Anyway, this tiny tube of metal held twenty-four photos, but Simon’s shop was closed. Who would turn the film into photos now? Dad said Monique found only one place in the whole city.

Milly put the canister on her bedside table and grabbed her tablet. She swiped away the news update—something about the drug company Mom used to work for and a government investigation—and fired up Google.

Film . . . photos . . . laboratory . . .

The first search result popped onto her screen, and Milly laughed.

Simon’s Film Lab.

So much for Dad saying the guy was gone. His shop was just online, like every shop was. She touched her way through to the website. Yes, that was him. A smiling man with slicked-back silver hair, a white lab coat, and a red-and-yellow name badge. A handmade font scrawled across his image: Clarity like you’ve never experienced before!