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The conference center was dim, the crowds cleared out

more than twenty minutes before. Only other exhibitors, the

event center staff, and security milled around the vast space.

Adalynn had been to more than her fair share of photography

conferences over the years, but each one since Pierre’s death

seemed to tire her more. Next time she was asked, she knew

she’d agree, if only to honor her husband’s work and memory.

She owed him that much.

Sitting in the back of the vast booth that had been erected as

an homage to Pierre and his work, Adalynn faced the blonde,

fresh-faced young journalist who had walked up to her just a

few minutes before and introduced herself as Amanda

Freeborn, journalist with a local Vegas publication. An online

thing, Adalynn assumed. She hadn’t bothered to check it

beforehand, and now she wished she had. When Wesley, her

personal assistant, asked her if she’d give the interview, she

agreed, only because she felt that it fell under the category of

dues she had to pay for having been given such a spectacular

life. So many wonderful years, when she could have had

nothing at all.

Amanda Freeborn was tall and thin. She’d dressed

professionally in a white blouse and black pencil skirt, but it

was just a tad too short, and her pumps were just a little bit too

high. Her cascading blonde hair was so long that Adalynn

could tell most of it was extensions. Adalynn didn’t like the

look, or Amanda’s heavy makeup, but she reminded herself it

didn’t matter what she thought. She wasn’t behind the lens

right now. She wasn’t searching for authenticity.

“It’s probably been a long day for you,” Amanda said,

leading off politely.