Angela had come to no harm physically.
There had been a photograph hanging on the wall in Bartram’s bedroom. A young man and a young woman. They were holding hands. Winter had taken a closer look. Their faces had been cut out and exchanged. He was she and she was he. The man’s face was Bartram’s. Younger.
Winter went to the living room that looked out onto the park, and stood in the window.
He drank away his thoughts. Two more days and there’d be an extra resident in the apartment. He took another sip, the champagne tripped off his tongue. He turned around, and felt a twinge in his left knee. He almost lost his balance, paused for a moment, then went into the kitchen and put his glass on the draining board.