Trey jumped. No. He was yanked—flying sideways, off balance.
“Get off her!” Royall exploded, tugging the back of Trey’s shirt, choking him as Trey scrambled to pull up his pants.
Nola did the same, still on the ground. “Get outta here!” she screamed. She wasn’t talking to Royall. She was warning Trey.
“Sh-She was all over me!” Trey lied, climbing to his feet.
Royall started to yell something, but instead buried a punch into Trey’s stomach, then his face, blood bursting from Trey’s nose. “That’s. My. Girl!” Royall exploded.
Trey was stumbling now, covering his face, just trying to—
“RUN!” Nola shouted as Trey took off, scurrying through the overgrown grass, hopping the fence into the neighbor’s backyard.
“THAT’S. MY. GIRL!” Royall bellowed, spit flying from his lips, his nostrils flaring, throwing one last punch in the air. His face was purple, the web of veins swelling below his eyes.
Six feet away, Nola was still on the ground, near the flattened beer can. She was watching Trey run—watching the rage on Royall’s face—watching him turn his attention toward her—and cursing herself for being so damn stupid, thinking she could actually have something good.
95
Fair Winds, Pennsylvania
Today
CameraWorld. That was the store Charmaine forgot.
“Mr. T!” she shouted through the phone at CameraWorld owner John Tang, a tall, handsome Asian man who used to wear his hair in a long ponytail.
“You know you can call me John.”
“John. Of course. Sorry. How are you?” Charmaine asked, suddenly wondering if calling him Mr. T had been racist, or just annoying. “Terry Ainsley sends her love, by the way.”
“She told me,” he said, already sounding exhausted, “and also told me what you’d be calling about.”
Back in the day, or at least in the days of real cameras, Charmaine and Zig had brought their undeveloped film to CameraWorld. They’d bought their original camcorder there. Most important, CameraWorld was the place that transferred their old videos—their wedding to tons of birthday parties—from the camera’s videotape to DVD.
“You’re wondering if I converted any videotapes for SuperStars—if I might have one of your daughter—”
“Maggie.”
“—if I might have one of Maggie,” Mr. Tang continued, his voice now calm, serene. “You know we closed the store years ago.”
“I know, but I figured if you kept backups—”
“We never made backups. We’d never have the space to store them all. Plus, a client’s footage belongs only to the client, so, no, I don’t have tapes of your daughter. I’m sorry.”
Curling forward in her seat, elbows on her knees, Charmaine realized that was it. She’d hit the last dead end of all the dead ends. I appreciate the time, she was about to say.
“Of course, if you contacted the client directly . . .”
“What’re you—？ What client?”
“SuperStars,” he said. “They were clients for years.”
“Hold on,” Charmaine blurted, popping out of her seat. “You’re saying you don’t have the footage, but . . .”
“Gloria Cash was the SuperStars owner. She’d record her videos, then bring a box of tapes over every Friday so we could transfer them to DVD.”
“But she— I spoke to Gloria’s daughter. She said she checked all the videotapes.”