"That's journalism." She crosses her arms. "Do we have a deal or not?"
I should walk away. Should tell her to take her photos to the authorities and let them handle it. Should focus on riding and earning points and staying alive long enough to finish the season.
But Tyler tried to tell me something before he died. Tried to warn me about something he'd found out. And if this photographer has evidence, even accidentally, then she's the best lead I've got.
"Tomorrow morning," I say. "Eight AM. Where are you staying?"
"I live in my van. It's parked in the lot behind the west entrance."
"Of course you do." I start to walk past her, then stop. "One rule. You don't publish anything about this. About Tyler, about whatever we find, nothing. Not until we know what we're looking at."
"I'm a photographer, not an investigative reporter."
"I don't care what you call yourself. I'm not having Tyler's death turned into sensational journalism while the people who killed him walk free."
She considers this. "If I agree to that, I want something in return."
"You're getting a front-row seat to me finding out who killed my friend. That's what you get."
"I want the whole story. When this is over, when we figure out what happened to Tyler, I want exclusive rights to document it all."
"This isn't about your career."
"And it's not just about your guilt." She doesn't back down. "I've been on this circuit for three years. I've photographed every event, every rider, every behind-the-scenes moment. If there's a pattern, if there's evidence hidden in thousands of photos, I'm the only one who can find it. So yes, this is partially about my career. It's also about doing the right thing."
I study her face, looking for the angle, the lie, the manipulation. But all I see is someone who's angry in the same way I am. Angry that Tyler's death got brushed under the rug. Angry that nobody seems to care enough to ask questions.
"Fine," I say. "Tomorrow morning. Eight AM. Don't be late."
"I'm never late."
I walk away before I can change my mind. Before I can think too hard about whether trusting a journalist I just met is the stupidest decision I've made in a week full of stupid decisions.
Behind me, I hear the camera shutter.Click. Click. Click.
She's still photographing. Still documenting. Still seeing more than I want anyone to see.
Tomorrow morning, I'm either going to get my first real break in Tyler's case, or I'm going to confirm that I'm chasing ghosts and conspiracy theories born from guilt and grief.
Either way, at least I'll know. I just hope Tyler's warning was worth dying for.
2
Rainey's van smells like sunscreen and coffee, and the inside looks like a hoarder's paradise of camera equipment and chaos.
I knock on the back doors at seven fifty-eight in the morning. They swing open to reveal Rainey sitting cross-legged on a mattress, laptop balanced on her knees, surrounded by memory cards, lenses, and what looks like three days' worth of empty coffee cups.
"You're early," she says.
"You said eight. It's eight."
"It's seven fifty-eight."
"Close enough." I climb into the van, having to duck my head to fit under the ceiling. The space is barely long enough to stretch out in, converted into a living area that's equal parts photography studio and mobile home. Clothes hanging on a wire line, portable stove, mini fridge humming in the corner. "This is where you live?"
"This is where I work. I sleep here when it's convenient." She gestures to the mattress. "Sit. And don't touch anything. Some of that equipment costs more than your truck."
I sit, careful not to knock over the tripod propped against the wall. Up close, in the morning light filtering through the tinted windows, Rainey looks younger than I thought yesterday. Late twenties, maybe, with the kind of exhaustion around her eyes that comes from never staying in one place long enough to rest.
