Kim Young had been there, but she was now in another room being interviewed—for a third time—by the police. The waiting room had a collection of Bibles, Korans, Vedas, and other religious books in a plywood bookshelf, together with a random assortment of former bestsellers donated by charities, former patients, and their families. Cheung and Meiying Lee were not reading, however. Mr. Lee stared stoically out the window at the darkening parking lot outside, his back erect and his hands on his knees. Kim had offered to hang up the coat of his dark navy suit when he and Mrs. Lee arrived three hours ago, but he had declined and still wore it. Mrs. Lee sat beside him, wearing a dress with a cheery floral print that contrasted jarringly with her pale, slack face. Her eyes were red and swollen, and she held a damp handkerchief in her hands. Her purse was still over her shoulder—a habit developed during her youth in one of Hong Kong’s poorer areas, where putting a purse on a bench when one sat down was an invitation to quick-fingered thieves.
