Free Getting Away Is Deadly by Sara Rosett

brought me a piece of fudge from the cardboard tray on the table, then took the other seat at the table across from Irene, who said, “So, the police were at your sister-in-law’s house?”
    Obviously the tour group had filled Irene in on what she’d missed and she was feeling better if she was interested in the news. I finished chewing a bite of the rich fudge, considering how to answer. I decided I’d better tell them about Jorge. “The police think the man who died in the Metro was pushed.”
    There was a brief silence and then Nadia said, “Well, that is the most awful thing. I thought seeing a man die was the worst thing, but if he was pushed—that’s even worse.”
    “Did you see it?” I asked
    “Well, no. I didn’t actually see anything. But the whole experience, being swept up in the crowd was frightening. That’s what I meant.”
    I noticed Abby looking at me with a disapproving frown and I realized my question probably sounded insensitive and a bit ghoulish. “Sorry. It’s just that the police have a video of the platform and they’re trying to narrow down who was near the man who died. His name was Jorge Dominguez,” I said with a glance at Irene, who popped the last bite of her fudge in her mouth. “That’s why the police came to talk to Summer. Since she works for Ms. Archer they thought Summer was on the platform. There was someone who looked like her in the video, but it couldn’t be her because she was babysitting Ms. Archer’s daughter that afternoon.”
    Irene stood up and said, “I just remembered I have to check in at home, you know? Thanks for the fudge, Nadia. No, don’t get up.” Irene sketched a wave in our general direction and slipped out the door.
    “Anyway, that’s why I came by. Since the video they have shows someone who looks like Summer on the platform, they think it was her and she can’t prove she was at the Archers’ house with a preschooler. Did you take any pictures on the platform before the man was pushed?”
    Nadia hurried over to her pile of Vera Bradley quilted luggage. She pulled out a small case covered in a country Provencal print and removed a laptop. “Of course I’ve got photos. I wonder why the police didn’t ask for them when they interviewed us that afternoon.”
    Abby rearranged a pillow at her back and said, “Well, at that point, everyone thought he’d fallen.”
    “Except for the idiot who yelled it was a terrorist,” Gina said with derision.
    “Right,” Abby said. “So, after the panic died down, we all thought he’d fallen. The police had a lot of people to talk to. I bet if you’d offered them the photos they would have taken them, but they probably didn’t even think about it.”
    “I wouldn’t give my photos to the police,” she said as she plugged in the laptop and powered it up. “I might e-mail them copies, maybe, but never my originals. Let’s see. I’ve already downloaded that day.”
    She pointed and clicked a bit and then swiveled the laptop toward me. She’d put it on a slide show view and the full-screen photos flicked across the display.
    The first photos were of the Capitol, the requisite shots of the dome and exterior. And there we were grouped in front of the Mall. Then a close-up of a pink flower filled the screen, reminding me of Georgia O’Keeffe’s paintings. The next was a black-and-white photo of a gardener as he worked in one of the many flower beds around the Capitol. He was wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. His curved back and drooping hand conveyed the arduousness of his work.
    I was stunned. “Wow, Nadia. These are amazing.”
    “Thanks,” she said as she cleared away the crumbs of fudge and fiddled with a stack of napkins.
    There were more black-and-white photos in the Metro, the children swirling in their game, a shot of a man, a commuter, shoulders sagging as he waited.
    “Nadia. These are incredible,” Gina said and I realized she was peering over one shoulder and Abby was