Snapshot

Chapter 1

"What makes you such a good fit for this position?"

Avery is focused on his receding hairline. He is bald, sweaty and has the annoying habit of whistling through his teeth as he speaks. And yet... he is married. He is also the manager of this shop. So, focusing on his negative traits really isn't getting her anywhere. She should pay more attention to what he is saying.

"I'm a self-starter you know, I work hard, and I'll always give it my best."

What a stupid comment. It is insipid and unrelated to the question at hand. She isn't getting this job. But did she really want to work for Sweaty McMarried Man? No. The answer is always no. But, she needs a job, so she sucks it up and goes to these pointless personality contests.

The rest of the interview goes the same way, except Avery resorts to staring out of the window at some point. Sweaty McMarried Man gives her a half-hearted handshake and wishes her well, but they both know that this didn't go well. She walks home, not sad or angry. The truth is that Avery doesn't feel much these days. It's all a whole lot of nothing. She might be depressed, but she does not want to self-diagnose. She also does not want to see a psychologist. So, she keeps it all inside.

She stares down at her sneakers all the way back to the penthouse. It isn't home, but Nigel tries his best. At one point she catches a glimpse of herself in one of the shop windows. Behind the glass, expensive shoes call for attention. But the reflection is what stops her. Her big brown eyes stare at her. She's wearing an old shirt of Nigel's, and her favourite pair of shorts.

It almost looks like she's a hipster. The old beanie on her head completes the look. She wants to tear it off her head because she never meant to look like a hipster today, but if she does her blue hair will come loose. That's another thing she didn't mean to do. She thought the dye was blonde. It wasn't.

The choice is ripped away from her when someone barrels into her, accidentally knocking her beanie loose. The man, a beautiful specimen of a man, gives her a brief apologetic glance before running off again. She sighs and puts her beanie back on, narrowly avoiding being run over by two burly men. These two don't spare her an apologetic glance, but rather storm off after her guy.

She stands there for a second. Should she help? They are in a bad neighbourhood after all. But then again, it's not her problem. She makes it back to the penthouse without further incident. Clara would have chased after them, convinced that she could solve everything. Avery shakes her head again. Clara is not here. Clara is dead.

***

"Who is this?" she asks when she steps out of the elevator.

Nigel looks up from his place on the couch. There are papers spread out all around him, and he has a pair of spectacles hanging off the tip of his nose. Nigel is the type of person who turns reading glasses into spectacles.

"This, my darling friend, is Joe. Say hello, Joe."

Joe lifts his head in greeting, never looking away from the violent video game he's playing. He has turned the expensive sofa into a pig sty, and his hands are sticky. She hasn't felt his hands, but he looks like they're sticky.

"What does he do?" she asks, pouring herself a glass of water.

Nigel's penthouse is unique. He had the top floor of his father's office building turned into an apartment. He says that it is the last place people expect you to live. And he is right. It is not comfortable or stylish. It is a large empty room with some furniture strewn about. She sleeps behind an office partition on a bed that cost more than a car. Nigel didn't have time to turn it into an apartment before she had to run.

"He's my alibi. Joe, where am I going to be tonight?"

"Playing video games with me."

"Do you have proof?"

"Pizza receipts at nine. Food for two. You never left."

Avery lifts both her eyebrows but says nothing.

"Your turn," Nigel looks up from his paperwork again, this time fixing her with a stern glare, "where were you today?"

"I went for a job interview."

She sits across from him, careful not to crease the myriad of papers surrounding her friend. She crosses her legs and turns her back to Sloppy Joe. His presence irks her. She balls up her fists and rests her head on them, giving him a mischievous stare.

"You know I take care of you," he says, c*****g his head like a puppy.

"I'm tired, Nigel, I don't like this anymore. I want to do something besides hiding here."

"I know, which is why I found a job for you."

She pouts. It's all for a show, and he laughs, but deep down she knows that she should be upset. She wanted to do this on her own. Prove to herself that she isn't a little china doll. But he can't help but see her that way. She knows she should be upset. But she isn’t. She doesn’t care.

"What is it?" she asks anyway.

"You know that boy band you like so much?"

"I don't know any boybands."

"Uhm... That one with the singer with the cool name? They sing about that girl who wore neon socks?"

She shakes her head at his efforts. He is an old man in a young body. He forgets to eat breakfast, reads newspapers and has several sets of pyjamas with matching slippers. But don't cross him in the business world. He's much smarter than you'd give him credit for.

"Fairly Chaotic?"

"That's the one," he says triumphantly, snapping his fingers.

"They're a punk band, grandpa. And what would I do for a punk band? Have you heard me sing?"

"Yes, unfortunately. They're looking for a photographer, which is what you are."

She gives him a tight smile. Now, she is very unhappy. And she can feel it. She hasn't been a photographer for a very long time.

"I don't have a camera."

"I bought one for you," he says indulgently.

He reaches under the couch and drags out a massive piece of machinery. Her heart jumps to her throat. She thought she destroyed it.

"Where did you get that?" she asks in a whisper.

"It isn't that one," he says gently, referring to the camera she spent months saving for, that is now lying at the bottom of a well a few hundred miles from where they are now.

He reaches for her trembling hands and wraps them around the camera. His paperwork is forgotten as he moves until he is sitting right in front of her, the papers crinkling as he moves. Slowly, they lift the camera to her face.

She closes one eye as she looks through the lens, instinct taking over. A deep breath escapes her lips. This is home, she feels as though this is where she belongs. Her lips quirk into a smile as she takes in all of Nigel's imperfections, but all his qualities too.

The relief is overwhelming.

But then she's taken back to that night. The air is cold around her, and she can smell the trees around her. Her finger presses down, and she can see Clara. Clara's hair arranged all around her. Her eyes, glassy and unfocused staring at the sky. Her lips opened in a sinister gasp.

Avery can't breathe, her hands fall, and she tries to back away. But Nigel won't let go.

"Look at me," he commands, grabbing her face in his hands. She looks around wildly, trying to make sure she isn't there again. Clara is dead. Clara has been buried.

"Look at me!" he yells.

She looks at him. His light brown eyes. His flame red hair. His nose with all those freckles he hates so much. His high cheekbones. His slightly too wide mouth. She grabs onto the hands holding her face and investigates those brown eyes. He has a slight ring of green around his pupils. He kind of needs to shave.

These details are bringing her home.

He lets go of her face and picks up the camera. Once again, he holds her hands around it, lifts it up to her face, while repeating those three words that always scare away Clara.

"Look at me," he whispers.

Her finger presses downwards, and when she looks at the picture, she sees Nigel.