He slid his hand into his pocket, a muscle in his jaw pulsing. “You’re not being fair.”

“Maybe not. But it is what it is.” The platitude rumbled out on a sigh.

“Okay. I get it.”

I wasn’t sure he did understand. I thought he was horny and wondering whether this could still be salvaged. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

I thought for a moment he’d reach out to me, but he stilled, finally nodding. “Nothing to be sorry about. Can’t catch lightning in a bottle, right?”

“Something like that.”

“I’d like to see you sometime soon,” he said. “I’d hate for thirteen years to go by before we see each other again.”

“Why did you come to my party?”

The desire melted from his gaze, leaving him more clear eyed. “We were friends once. Time to let the past go, I guess.”

“Have you been able to do that?”

“I’m working on it.”

“I’m not sure I ever will,” I said.

He studied my face, searching for hints of the desire I’d felt just moments ago. He found none. “Guess that’s my cue to leave.”

“Right.”

As he turned, he spotted a collection of framed black-and-white photos that I’d taken last fall. They were the ones I’d exhibited in my art show in January, right before the car accident. Odd, but I still didn’t remember the show or bringing these pictures home and rehanging them.

Kurt studied the images closely. “You took these?”

“Yes. Sometimes I really do identify as an artist,” I joked.

A smile quirked his lips. “Don’t let what Jo-Jo said get to you. It’s good to be a dreamer. She can be a moron and always found a way to take a swipe at you.”

“That’s not true.”

“It’s me you’re talking to. I know Jo-Jo.”

“She’s evolved.”

He chuckled as he leaned closer to an image of an old tree’s twisted branches dangling over the high waters of the James River. “I know this location.”

“We hung out on the rocks when we were in high school.”

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “It’s also not far from where Clare was found.”

“Yes.” I’d stayed away from this place for years, and then last fall, I’d been pulled to the river rocks. I’d stood for hours, staring at the rushing waters, trying to conjure the secrets I knew were buried under the troubled surface.

When I returned to the site the next time, I had my camera and began shooting. After I developed the images in my makeshift darkroom, I stared at them, willing myself to see something that had escaped everyone thirteen years ago. Tell me who killed Clare and left her body on the banks of the James River. But no matter how many images I took, how long I stared, I saw nothing, heard nothing.