Page 31 of The House on Forgotten Hill

Five minutes after that, he responded.

“He’s at his studio now and said to come on down.” She reached for her purse. “I’ll drive.”

A few minutes later, Estelle backed out of the driveway, and I found myself staring at the canister again.

Twenty years

For more than twenty years, the roll of film had remained hidden beneath my father’s office floor, untouched and forgotten. Whatever images were trapped inside, I had a feeling they were about to change everything.

15

Twenty minutes later Estelle parked in front of a brick building on the edge of downtown with a sign above the door that read: Caleb Foster Photography. The studio windows glowed against the darkening sky, and as we stepped inside, a bell above the door chimed. The place was larger than I’d expected. Framed photographs covered the walls, pictures of landscapes, weddings, as well as a handful of old black-and-white portraits.

Toward the back of the room, behind a reception desk, was a man who looked to be around my age. He was tall, handsome, and dressed in jeans and a black button-up shirt. His dark hair curled at the collar, and his gentle eyes put me at ease.

The moment he saw Estelle, he smiled. “Aunt Estelle. Good to see you.”

“You too, dear,” she said.

He stepped around the desk and wrapped her in a hug before turning to me.

“You must be Olivia.”

“I am.”

“Caleb Foster. Nice to meet you.”

“Thank you for seeing us tonight.”

“Of course.” He glanced toward the film canister in my hand. “Estelle told me you found an old metal box in the house you lived in as a child, and there was a roll of film inside.”

“That’s the short version.”

He motioned toward a sitting area in the corner of the studio. “Why don’t we all sit down, and you can explain the rest?”

Estelle and I exchanged a nervous look, and I found myself unsure of how much I wanted to say. An hour from now, we could discover nothing more than photographs of birds or pictures of my family.

Or … we could discover something far worse.

We sat, and after a long moment, I began.

I told Caleb about my mother’s final words, and about my father’s death.

I said that I’d returned home and bought my childhood house, and that during some renovations this morning, the box had been found.

I showed him the newspaper clippings about Christy Meyers, Lara, and Melinda Bellamy.

Estelle chimed in here and there, filling in details about the neighborhood and the years after my father died.

Caleb listened without interrupting, his expression growing more serious as I went on.

When I finished, he sat back in his chair and looked at the film canister in my hand.

“So you think your father may have photographed something connected to these women?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

He nodded. “I’ll develop it, but before I do, there’s something we need to agree on.”