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“I need to see what they’ve taken.”

“You’ll see it through the police body cameras.”

Ivy’s frustration fills the maintenance room.

Unlike Storm, she doesn’t yell when she’s angry. She becomes quieter.

Sharper.

“I know every photograph in that studio,” she says. “The police don’t.”

“Then you’ll help direct them remotely.”

Marquez motions for us to follow her back to the secured conference room.

The Coast Guard technician seals my compass inside a clear evidence container. Another agent carries the single frame separately.

Ben waits until both are locked inside the transport case.

“You’re watching that case as though it may run away,” I say.

“I’ve learned that everything connected to your family either disappears, explodes or attracts armed men.”

“Nothing has exploded.”

“Yet.”

“Don’t give anyone ideas.”

He reaches for my hand.

For the first time since the attack began, I don’t resist the need to hold on to him.

We return to the conference room, where Storm, Willow, Hazel, Mom, Nathan, Ward and Thomas are waiting.

Marquez connects the wall monitors to a secure police feed.

A map appears first.

Ivy’s studio occupies the second floor of a converted warehouse near the Embarcadero. The gallery is in front, with her office and editing rooms behind it. A private stairwell leads to the third-floor storage area.

“Where is Grandpa’s camera?” Marquez asks.

“In the storage room,” Ivy answers.

“Describe it.”

“An old black Leica in a brown leather case.”

“What makes you believe it contains one of the prisms?”

“Grandpa gave it to me when I was sixteen. He said it had belonged to Dad.”

“Was Daniel a photographer?” Ben asks.

“Not professionally,” Ivy says. “But he carried a camera everywhere when we were young.”

Mom gives a sad smile. “Daniel took hundreds of pictures of the girls. Most of them were terrible.”