Read Chapter 4: A Debt Collector's Smile

The bell above the pawnshop door was still sighing shut behind her when a shadow fell across the counter. Mara didn’t have to turn around. She knew that aftershave—cheap cologne trying to cover something sour. Lenny Marsh’s voice came low and pleasant, the way a cat might greet a mouse it had already decided to play with.

“Miss Ellis. Fancy finding you in a place like this.”

Her repaired Leica sat in its case at her hip, still warm from the counter where she’d handed over every last pound of her mother’s watch. She’d left with exactly eleven pence in her coat pocket. And now Lenny stood between her and the door.

“Mr. Marsh.” She turned, keeping her face neutral. “I didn’t take you for a pawnbroker’s man.”

“Oh, I’m not.” He smiled, all teeth. “But I do keep an eye on my investments. And you, Miss Ellis, are an investment.”

Mara’s stomach dropped. The roll of film in her bag felt suddenly heavier—Sophie’s face, the fear she’d caught for half a second before Lenny’s hand had come down on her shoulder. She hadn’t developed it yet. She’d told herself she didn’t need to look, that it was probably nothing, just a trick of the light and her own jumpy nerves.

“I don’t recall signing anything,” she said, keeping her voice steady.

“You don’t need to sign for a favour. You need to repay one.” Lenny stepped closer, blocking the doorjamb. His smile never wavered, but his eyes went flat, like a pond freezing over. “I gave you a job when Dex vouched for you. A paying job. You took my money, Miss Ellis. I expect a return.”

“The prints went to your office Friday. I delivered them myself.”

“The prints,” Lenny repeated, savoring the word. “Yes. Nice composition, those. But I’m a businessman, and business is about more than pretty pictures. I’m owed, Miss Ellis. And I’m told you’ve got a showcase tonight that could put my little venture in a very good light—if certain people see certain photographs of certain upcoming talents.”

Mara’s pulse hammered. The Unknowns. He wanted a piece of them.

“I shoot for Dex,” she said. “The Electric Ballroom is his gig.”

“Dex and I are old friends. We share an understanding.” Lenny’s hand came up, and for a moment she thought he was going to touch her face. Instead, he tapped the frame of the door, twice, like a man knocking. “Here’s my understanding with you, love. You owe me a favour—a real favour. Something that puts money in my pocket. I’m thinking an album cover. A band called the Unknowns. Ambition like that needs a face, and I want mine on the back of it.”

“I don’t control who the band works with.”

“No.” Lenny’s smile thinned. “But you can make introductions. You’re going to be shooting them tonight, aren’t you? Getting close? Artists like you—you get under their skin. You make them trust you.”

He leaned in, and his breath was warm and faintly sweet, like rotting fruit. “You make that happen, and we’re square. You don’t, and I start calling in favours from other people. People who don’t ask nicely.”

Mara said nothing. The film in her bag burned against her hip.

Lenny stepped back, smoothing his lapels. “I’ll be in touch. Good luck tonight, Miss Ellis. I hear the Unknowns are something special.”

He left. The bell jangled. Mara stayed frozen for a full ten seconds, then let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

She’d promised him an album cover. She had no idea if the band even wanted one. And she had no money, no watch, and a camera that had just cost her everything she owned.

---

The Electric Ballroom’s side door was propped open with a brick when Mara arrived at 5:25. The Leica hung at her neck, newly oiled, the shutter action smooth as silk. Inside, the venue was a cavern of shadow and dust, the stage lights still rigged and dark. A ladder leaned against the front-of-house stack, and someone was tuning a guitar somewhere in the gloom—a low, repetitive figure that she recognized.

Robbie. The same four notes, over and over, like he was testing whether the strings would break.

She found Dex by the bar, nursing a whiskey and checking his watch. He looked up as she approached, and the brief flash of surprise in his eyes told her she’d made the right call coming early.

“Mara.” He set the glass down. “You’re prompt.”

“I’m serious.” She set her bag on the bar and pulled out the release forms she’d prepared—standard paperwork for a showcase shoot. “If this goes well tonight, I want more than one night. I want the band’s next album cover. Official. Contracted.”

Dex raised an eyebrow. “They don’t have a record deal yet.”

“They will.” She pushed one of the forms toward him. “And when they do, I want my name in the credits. Not just ‘photography by’—I want the inside sleeve. The art direction credit. I want to be part of the conversation, not just the help.”

Dex studied her for a long moment. He was older than Lenny by a decade, his face carved from granite and cigarettes, but there was a softness around his eyes that Lenny lacked. A man who’d seen too much, rather than one who enjoyed the seeing.

“You’ve got nerve,” he said finally. “I like nerve. But nerve doesn’t get you a contract. Results do.” He picked up the form and examined it. “You get me shots tonight that make people talk—make the right people talk—and I’ll make a call. Abbey Road. Studio Two. A proper session, lights, smoke, the whole bloody spectacle.”

Mara’s breath caught. Abbey Road. The room where the Beatles had made everything that mattered. She kept her face still, though, and nodded once.

“I’ll get you your shots.”

“See that you do.” Dex pocketed the form. “The band’s in the back room. Robbie’s already got his back up about something—probably the mirror ball. Don’t let him put you off your game.”

She left the bar and crossed the empty dance floor toward the back hallway. The guitar riff had stopped. In its place, she could hear voices—low, tense. She slowed as she reached the dressing room door, which stood ajar.

“—don’t trust her.” That was Robbie. His voice was a blade wrapped in velvet, sharp and quiet. “She’s got a look about her. Like she’s counting the bruises before they happen.”

“She’s got a camera, Robbie. That’s what she’s got.” Dex’s voice, calm. “And she’s got Lenny Marsh’s attention. You want to talk about trust? Start with him.”

A pause. Then Robbie laughed—a short, bitter sound. “Lenny Marsh. Right. Because one predator wasn’t enough.”

“Careful,” Dex said. “That mouth of yours is going to get someone killed.”

The door swung open and Mara stepped back, pretending she’d just arrived. Robbie filled the doorway, leather jacket slung over one shoulder, his face half in shadow. He saw her and stopped.

“You,” he said. Not hostile, not friendly. Just a fact.

“Me,” she agreed.

Something passed between them—a flicker, a charge. He was taller than she remembered, and his eyes—grey like winter sea—held a wariness she recognized. He’d been burned before. She could see it in the way he stood, guarded even in a dressing room.

“You’re early,” he said.

“I wanted to set up. Test the light.” She patted the Leica. “Make sure I get the shot right.”

“There is no ‘right.’” He stepped past her into the corridor, and for a moment they were close enough that she could smell him—leather, smoke, and something underneath that was clean and sharp. “Only what you choose to take.”

He walked off toward the stage, leaving her in the dusty silence.

Mara watched him go, then looked down at the camera in her hands. The weight of the unprocessed film was still in her bag—Sophie’s face, still hidden. She’d need to find Frank, get into that darkroom, and see if she really had captured what she thought she had.

Because if she had, she wasn’t just carrying fear. She was carrying evidence.

And Lenny Marsh wanted an album cover.

She had eight hundred seconds before the Unknowns took the stage. Everything depended on what she did with them.