Ten days ago
Scott flipped through the photo files, selecting, adding filters, cropping. He was not assisted in the slightest by Brandon, who made crude or ridiculous suggestions. The shoot, nothing special, just some wildlife for one of the local magazines, hadn’t been difficult, but had entailed quite a lot of hiking through pathless woods and waiting. He’d gotten a few good shots of a nest of birds, and a picture of a kestrel snatching up a mole. The dive-shot might actually be worth submitting to National Geographic, Scott figured.
“So, Rhonda called earlier,” he said casually. “While you were at work.”
“Who?” Brandon had grown bored looking over Scott’s shoulder and had rolled over on their narrow shared bed, staring at the ceiling.
“Rhonda Farr. The editor of Farr Cry magazine,”
