Page 38 of The Fire Line

“She got that from you,” Walt called from somewhere inside the lodge.

Della turned toward the open door. “Nobody asked you.”

Navarro laughed, and Harris looked down at the latch before anybody could see his own mouth move.

“She was right about those beds,” Della added.

“’Course she was,” Walt called back.

“That isn’t the point.”

“What was the point?”

“The point was that she was supposed to ask.”

“She did ask.”

“After she ordered them.”

There was a pause from inside. “That sounds like asking.”

Della stared toward the doorway. “Thirty-eight years.”

Navarro covered his mouth with one hand, shoulders moving.

Harris concentrated on the latch, which did not require nearly as much attention as he was giving it.

When he glanced over again, Della was smiling in a way Harris had not seen much since Nell died, especially when Nell was the topic of conversation. The grief was still there. It was simply sharing space with something else for once.

The filmmaker asked another question, and Della started telling him about the time Nell had convinced Evan that the north pasture was haunted when they were kids. Harris knew the story. He also knew Nell had been the one hiding behind the equipment shed making noises after dark, although as far as Harris knew, Della had never learned that part.

He was considering whether loyalty to his dead sister required continued silence when Willa came out of the lodge carrying a framed photograph.

Harris recognized it before she reached Della.

Nell at twenty-three, sitting backward on a kitchen chair with her braid over one shoulder, grinning because whoever held the camera had almost certainly told her to behave and Nell had almost certainly done the opposite.

Willa climbed onto the bench beside Della and held up the frame. “Auntie Nelly.”

Della’s hand stopped on the chair arm.

The change was small enough that somebody who did not know her might have missed it. Harris did not. Her mouth tightened first. Then her eyes filled.

The camera remained pointed toward them.

Harris put down the wrench and started toward the porch.

Before he reached the doorway, Navarro lifted one hand. Eli immediately lowered the camera.

No discussion. No glance toward Harris for permission. No question about whether another few seconds might still be usable.

Della pulled Willa against her side. Navarro removed his headphones and set them beside his chair. He didn’t apologize or soften his voice into the careful tone people used when they wanted you to know they understood grief. He simply stopped filming and turned slightly away—not enough to leave Della alone with the moment, only enough to give it back to her.

Harris stopped in the doorway.

He had been prepared to end something. There was nothing left to end.

For weeks, he had treated the camera as the threat and Navarro as the man carrying it. Cameras took. Filmmakers wanted more than people intended to give. Harris understood those rules and knew what his job was when somebody crossed the line.