Free A Photographic Death by Judi Culbertson Page B

pushed open the outside door.
    As I did, a fair-haired woman close to my age, passed me and gave me a startled look. Was it Annalisa Merck? I smiled and walked quickly toward the stairs.

 
    Chapter Fourteen
    O UTSIDE IN THE early December air, I stopped and took several calming breaths, then started back toward the parking garage. I couldn’t wait to call Jane. Yet when I saw the brick social sciences building, I decided to see if Colin was in his office. I thought of Jane’s prediction, “Daddy will have to believe it now!”
    Fingers crossed.
    Colin’s division, archeology, was part of the larger anthropology department. I rode the elevator to the fifth floor and walked to the Institute for Long Island Archaeology, not stopping to look at the color photos of local excavations. I knew they would show mostly Native American sites. There was a race to discover them before they were lost forever under developers’ machinery.
    Colin’s office was empty, so I sat down in a cushioned alcove to wait.
    I had taken out my phone and was about to press the button to connect me to Jane when Colin came around the corner, accompanied by two worshipful young women. The student in red tights was asking him what appeared to be a life-or-death question.
    He stopped abruptly, seeing me. “Delhi! What—is everything okay?”
    I knew his first thought was always the children.
    “It’s fine. I was on campus and thought I’d come by. We have to talk.” It felt good to be the one using that phrase for a change. When Colin said, “We have to talk,” it was never to find out what I wanted for my birthday.
    He frowned, and the students melted away. “This isn’t a good time.”
    “It won’t take long.”
    “I have fifteen minutes before I’m meeting a grant representative.”
    “That will work.”
    “Not here. I’ll walk you to your van.” And make sure I get into it?
    T H E W I N T E R S U N played over the benches on the quad, the grass a pale, defeated green. There was a deep chill whenever you crossed into the shade. Students eddied around us on their way to the library or their next class.
    “We’ll get coffee,” he decided.
    “Is it private enough to talk?”
    “Upstairs.”
    We bought our coffee in the cafeteria. I looked longingly at the cupcakes, decorated with red and green holiday sprinkles, but I had already eaten a scone. I remembered Patience in her pin-striped pants and left the cupcakes on the wire shelf.
    As Colin had predicted, we were the only people on the second floor. The long room was dedicated to musicians who had performed on campus, and we sat down underneath a Janis Joplin poster.
    He glanced at his watch. “So what brings you to campus?”
    “I needed to develop some film in the darkroom.”
    “You’re taking photos again?”
    “No. These were some old rolls.”
    “I hope you didn’t use my name to get in.”
    “No.” I took a sip of coffee and looked at him. “Why are you so against trying to find Caitlin?”
    “Because it will only lead to more frustration.” He sighed. “I don’t have time to go through my reasons again. Is that why you brought me here?”
    “No.” I cast about for the most persuasive way to tell him about last night. “Jane remembered what really happened that day,” I started. “Remember how she kept talking about a ‘bad lady’ who would get her too? Well, it turns out there was a woman, someone dressed up like a nanny who talked to the girls. She asked Jane to go pick a flower for her, then hid Caitlin in a carriage when Jane’s back was turned, and told her to tell me she had fallen into the water. That’s what she was trying to tell us that night!”
    He flinched as if resisting being pulled back into that scene. “And she suddenly remembered it all? All those details?”
    “Well,” I admitted, “she had some help.”
    “Some help? Delhi, no! Please don’t tell me it was under hypnosis or some damn thing like that.” He gave me a