CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ilse stood outside the interrogation room, frowning towards where Agent Sawyer was smacking a vending machine. The agent's hand already stained the glass, but he continued his insistent pats, trying to dislodge a bag of chips that had been caught.
Ilse sighed, moving up the hall towards where the sandy-haired man stood hunched in the shadows.
Another whack of his palm against the glass, and she flinched. Her fingers flicked towards her ear, brushing her hair.
She thought, briefly, horribly, of her father. His parole hearing was looming. She needed to get tickets, book a hotel. Needed to prepare for the meeting. Perhaps even write a speech. But the longer this case went on, the harder it would be for her to be there for the parole. Her frustrations were mounting in this
