Atop a floral-quilted bed sat a spread of photographs. Tony’s eye fell on the largest one, a candid shot of a fair-haired man, youthful but not young, smiling faintly and staring at the photographer with deep, cunning eyes. The room was thick with the smell of baby powder.
Tony shifted his focus to a desk on the far wall. In front of the desk was a swivel chair, currently occupied by a figure in a black raincoat who sat facing the window. Tony heard what sounded like soft sobs. If she was going to attack him, she’d have done so by now.
“Emma?” he said, hooking the chair arm with the tripod and spinning it toward him. “It’s over.”
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