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“You haven’t asked how much,” Joe chided. “Sloppy.”
“Someone was taking pictures.” She held out the photos. “I thought you might be interested.”
He pressed against the light pole, shaking his head. “Not really.”
“You should look.” She shoved the pictures in his hand.
Grudgingly, Joe bent his head to study the black-and-white photos, his expression hidden beneath his beard.
“Whoever took this did a terrible job.” He jabbed a finger at the image of Peri standing in front of the coffeeshop. “The girl’s fat ass is in front of the window sign.”
At first glance, Maya had assumed, like Peri, that the pictures had been taken of her. She was in each one of them, after all. But a closer look revealed that Peri was often turned away or at the edge of the picture. There was always one object in center focus.
“The photographer wasn’t interested in the Witch’s Brew.”
“Ah. A stalker,” Joe tried to bluff. “You should call the cops.”
“If it’s a stalker, their only interest was in you,” she said in tones that revealed she wasn’t going to back down.
There was a long silence and Maya wondered if he was going to continue to deny the truth. Then, without warning, the pictures abruptly went up in flames, as if they’d been lit by an unseen torch. A second later, the ashes were floating on the breeze caused by a crushing power.
“You see too much, Maya Rosen,” Joe said, a hint of warning in his soft tone.
Maya tilted her chin, refusing to be intimidated. “I have a feeling my eyes are just starting to open.”
