On the way home her mind raced with what to do next. First, call her father and bring him up to date. Hopefully, he could find satellite pictures that would solve the mystery of the strange structure.
Information about Superfund sites should be online. If one related to the water issue, that would solve that, at least. Would the EPA be liable for Edna's death? Rhonda's crazy behavior?
When she got home, she collapsed into a kitchen chair. The usual aches and pains, further exacerbated by the stressful day, raged. Her body begged for a nap, but her brain refused to cooperate.
Maybe she could kill two birds with one stone.
Get out her yoga mat and assume the lotus position—which she could finally achieve again—and search the web. Bryan's laptop would be easier to use and more efficient than her tablet.
Satisfied with her plan, she laid out the mat, then went to retrieve the computer.
The sprawling oak desk and shelving unit built into the far corner of the living area struck her with a fresh wave of nostalgia. Bryan had designed it to his own specifications, then put it together, piece by piece.
What a renaissance man he was. There was absolutely nothing he couldn't do.
A small moan escaped as she lowered slowly to her knees and opened the cabinet portion on the right. Her shoulder and back muscles complained as she leaned far enough inside to reach the very back. A few twinges later she managed to release the latch to the false bottom. Since they were often absent from the cabin for months, he created a secure place for anything of value. He always left a spare laptop there, being a computer geek with a clear addiction.
The spring released and false floor elevated.
Bryan's computer, as expected, was nestled inside.
They always agreed not to mess with the other's machine. It was beyond annoying when someone else changed the settings, often inadvertently. Oddly enough, she felt as if she were intruding or breaking that pact. With a heavy heart, she lifted it out, apologized aloud for the violation, then got in position on the mat.
It booted right up. She connected to her phone's hot spot and opened Firefox. A handful of different tabs came up. Some work-related, eBay, and his Facebook page. She clicked on the last one, thinking she should shut it down along with all his other social media sites.
It finished loading.
The cover and profile shots were new.
A panoramic view of snowcapped peaks, his profile picture replaced with a shot of the two of them.
Both taken the day of the accident.
An onslaught of goosebumps tickled her arms and the back of her neck.
How did he do that?
She took a deep breath and tried to think. Maybe with his phone. But the picture quality was far beyond that, not the typical distorted wide-angle. She scrolled down to where he added it, finding a post made with his phone.
I love my wife's new camera. Is this an awesome shot or what?
Her mind tripped through a log-jam of thoughts, data, and implications. Her camera could do that? Did he ever mention that? Not that her brain was exactly helpful these days.
Was it possible it didn't matter the camera was lost? Could the pictures they took be in cyberspace somewhere?
She clicked on the folder icon, hoping it would be easy to find. "My Pictures" contained a multitude of subfolders. One was called "Olympus."
She opened it.
Everything was familiar, taken before the accident.
Back to File Explorer. What was the one called OneDrive? Its icon looked like a cloud.
Several folders came up. Within was another one, also named "Olympus."
A single folder lay within.
Its title the date of the accident.
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