After a hurried conversation that did nothing to ease my fears, I found myself once again at police headquarters in the butt-ugly pea green room with the ratty table and chairs and the gigantic two-way mirror on the wall. Just like last time, the stenographer followed me in and set up her tape recorder. She then positioned herself at the table with her steno pad in front of her. When she was settled, she nodded to me. Perhaps she remembered me from the time before. Or perhaps she was just being polite. I motioned to the paper and pen in front of her. “Low tech,” I said. She smiled and gave a tiny shrug, then focused her attention on the blacked-out mirror on the wall. She looked bored. We waited in silence until Chris entered the room. I hadn’t seen him since the night he brought the security tape to the house. I opened my mouth to say hello, then slapped it shut. He stood before me with a black eye and one ear covered with gauze. The knuckles on his right hand were bruised and scabbed over.
