Then she checked her email.
Nothing from Winters.
Nothing from Marcus.
Not even a question mark.
A slow, prickling unease traced up her spine.
If Marcus wasn’t calling, that meant—
He'd stopped.Too angry to talk.
And if Winters wasn’t calling, that meant—
She was waiting for formal reports.
She guessed Hirschfeld had already briefed them about the arrest.She believed, too, that the Chicago agent would have done her best to pour oil on troubled waters.But she doubted that would have helped any.
She thumbed the screen once more, checking for messages she knew weren’t there.
Still nothing.
It troubled her—
Not entirely because of the job.
The man at the Kingsleys’.The one in the greenhouse.The one with a gun instead of a blade.
No knife.
No art.
Different M.O.
WrongM.O.
Her mind wanted to dig into that discrepancy.Pull at it, tease it apart, dissect it.But exhaustion was dragging at her, fogging the edges of her thoughts.
Tomorrow, she told herself.
That can wait until tomorrow.
Her stomach grumbled.Right.She hadn’t eaten since lunchtime.
She shoved her feet into her boots and headed to reception.The car park was empty.Was she the only guest?
The kid behind the desk—a teenage boy with earphones in and the defeated air of someone counting minutes until closing—barely looked up.
“Vending machine’s broken,” he said flatly.
“I noticed,” Kate replied.“Can I get a Coke?”
He slid one across the counter without ceremony.It was warm.
"And… chips?"she added.
Another slide.
