“I didn't say anything about a case.”
“You don't need to.”
“Then why are you?”
The sergeant looked around.
Two teenagers walked past carrying surfboards.
A family posed for photographs near the railing.
Nobody seemed interested yet.
Kessler lowered his voice.
“Mr. Reed, you cannot enter the restricted maintenance area.”
“I haven't.”
“You were photographing the gate.”
“Yes.”
“You walked toward it.”
“I walked along the public boardwalk.”
“You were observed near the chain.”
Daniel looked toward the ramp.
“The chain is thirty feet from where I stopped.”
Kessler’s jaw shifted.
Daniel continued.
“You can check the security cameras.”
“I may.”
“Good.”
The officer extended one hand.
“I need to see the photographs.”
Daniel stopped.
“No.”
Kessler looked surprised.
“What?”
“No.”
“I’m investigating a suspicious-person call.”
“You asked what I was doing.”
“I told you.”
“You verified my identity.”
“I have not committed a crime.”
“I’m not handing you my camera.”
Kessler’s expression hardened.
“I didn't ask for the camera.”
“You asked for the photographs.”
“Show me the last few.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Daniel looked down at the camera.
The answer was complicated.
Because the newest photographs were not the only photographs on the card.
Because the card inside the second slot had been returned to him that morning by a data-recovery laboratory in San Diego.
Because four years earlier, Harbor Point police had recovered Ava’s salt-damaged camera from beneath the boardwalk after she fell.
Because the camera had been broken, the battery compartment flooded, and the memory card unreadable.
Because Daniel had spent four years keeping the card inside an evidence envelope even after the wrongful-death case ended.
Because three months earlier, a former newspaper colleague told him about a laboratory capable of recovering damaged RAW files from physically compromised cards.
Because thirty-seven photographs had come back.
Because he had looked at only twenty-nine.
And because the last eight were still on the camera now.
He had come to Harbor Point to understand them before showing anyone else.
Kessler interpreted his silence differently.
“What’s on there?”
Daniel looked up.
“My daughter’s photographs.”
The sergeant froze.
“What?”
“Ava’s.”
Kessler looked at the camera.
Then back at Daniel.
“You said you were taking pictures today.”
“I am.”
“The camera has two card slots.”
Kessler stared.
Daniel immediately regretted explaining.
“Sergeant, I’m leaving.”
He turned slightly.
Kessler caught the camera harness near Daniel’s shoulder.
Daniel stopped.
Every muscle in his body tightened.
“Take your hand off me.”
Kessler’s grip remained.
“I’m not finished.”
Daniel looked down at the gloved hand around the black strap.
Then at Kessler.
“You are holding equipment attached to my body.”
“I need you to stop moving.”
“I stopped.”
“Then we’re fine.”
“No.”
Daniel’s voice lowered.
“We are not.”
People had begun watching.
Daniel could feel it without turning.
The boardwalk had a particular silence when strangers sensed conflict.
Not true silence.
A thinning.
Conversations lowering.
Footsteps slowing.
Phones appearing.
Kessler moved closer.
“I need you to understand something.”
Daniel stared directly at him.
“I understand that you put your hands on me after I said I was leaving.”
“You are being detained.”