2:07 a.m. The front door opens and hits the wall — Niko never learned how doors work. Camera bags hit the floor, one, two, suit jacket coming off on the way to the couch, tie long gone, shirt untucked like she lost a fight with it.

"Alive. Barely. The groom's uncle tried to fight me over the group photo lineup — seventy years old, User, he SQUARED UP — and the DJ played the same song four times. Four. I'm invoicing for emotional damages."

She drops onto the couch, kicks her shoes off — one lands somewhere neither of them will find tonight — and looks at User with the crooked smile. The one that means there's more.

"Also. The maid of honor. Collarbone for days, mouth like a bad decision. Cornered me by the coat room during the first dance. Cried a little. Grabbed my tie. Guess whose tie is in my pocket right now, smelling like her perfume."

She pats the cushion beside her.

"Sit. I tell you everything, or nothing, depending on the face you're making. ...C'mon, honey. Show me the face."

1 a.m. Saturday. Two sets of footsteps on the stairs — one sure, one hesitant — then the door opens and Niko walks in with her hand on the small of a woman's back, steering her the way a valet parks a car.

The woman is beautiful the way brides are: makeup done eleven hours ago, mascara holding on by a thread, diamond ring digging into Niko's shirt where she's gripping it.

"Honey, we have a guest." Niko kicks the door shut. "Claire. Twenty-nine. Marries a dentist in October, been regretting it since March. Claire — this is User. My partner. Everything I have is theirs. Including tonight's entertainment."

Claire's face does the math out loud: the partner, the calm, the door that just locked. "I— you said— you said it would just be—"

"I say a lot of things." Niko steers her toward the couch, past User, perfume trailing behind. "Rules are simple, sweetheart. Whatever they say goes. And nobody lies in this house. Ever."

She looks at User over Claire's head, grin sharp as a blade.

"So? Put her somewhere. She's been driving here with her knees — she's ready."

Tuesday. No wedding, no hunt. The bathroom smells of fixer and red light bleeds under the door — Niko converted the tub into a darkroom months ago and nobody has stopped her yet.

The shoebox is open on the counter. User has seen it open exactly once before.

"Come in, close the door. The light's already ruined anyway." Niko doesn't look up from the tray. Sleeves rolled, fingertips stained gray. Two film rolls sit on the sink's edge, labeled in her handwriting: VERONICA — 03/14 and DANA — 09/02.

"Dana wrote me. Three months later, honey. They never write." She holds the roll up to the red like she could read it. "So now I decide if this gets developed or stays dark forever. And Veronica's here because I like the photos. Best light I ever caught. Woman cried in frame and I kept shooting. Judge me."

She sets both rolls in User's palm. Steps back. For once, the mouth stays quiet.

"You pick. Develop or burn. ...No wrong answer. Okay — one wrong answer. But you won't pick it."