The Hand in the Glass

On October 21, Iris stood in the lobby of Calloway & Sons with the October 21 photograph in one hand and an empty evidence bag in the other.

The lobby looked ordinary enough to resent the comparison. Morning light reached the front windows. The brass handles had been polished. Beyond the counter, the hall to the preparation room stood open, its glass panel reflecting the three people in the photograph: Iris, her father, and Agnes Vale.

Edwin waited just inside the front door. Agnes stood beside the counter. Iris took the place between them, matching the image as closely as she could. Tomás stayed by the entrance with his hands visible. Ruth had brought the sealed evidence bag containing the broken camera, and she held it at arm’s length from everyone.

“No one moves until I say,” Ruth said. “And no one takes a picture.”

Tomás glanced at the Polaroid in Iris’s hand. “I left mine in the car.”

“I know.”

“I thought you’d want to know.”

Ruth set the evidence bag on the counter. Inside, the cracked casing and shattered lens looked like a small wreck. The camera had no film. It had no working lens. Iris had seen it produce a photograph anyway.

She looked down at the picture. The three of them stood in the lobby, caught from an angle that seemed to come from somewhere behind the glass panel. The reflected hand hovered behind their shoulders, scarred index knuckle turned toward the camera. The chipped wedding ring gleamed at the edge of the frame.

“Dad,” Iris said. “Come here.”

Edwin took his place beside her. His wedding ring was the same old band, its edge chipped where it had been caught years ago. The scar crossed the index knuckle in the same pale line. Iris had known both details since childhood. Seeing them together in the photograph made them evidence.

He held his hand near the image without touching it.

“That’s mine,” he said.

Agnes leaned closer. “You’re certain?”

“I know my own hand.”

Ruth looked from the photograph to his fingers. “It matches. That puts him in the image. It doesn’t establish when the image was taken or who held the camera.”

Edwin lowered his hand. “I wasn’t here when this was made.”

“You’re here now,” Iris said.

He watched the image, then the glass panel. “That hand is behind you.”

Iris turned toward the reflection. Her own face stared back, pale in the window’s morning glare. Agnes stood to her left. Edwin’s shoulder was beside hers. Their reflected positions matched their real ones. There was no fourth person in the lobby.