CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sawyer’s bottle of caffeine pills rattled. And Ilse watched where he tossed a tennis ball against the window in his small, closet office space. In one hand, he gripped a sheet of paper, waving it in her direction. The other caught the tennis ball, launched it again, and the window rattled as it ricocheted.
"So what does it say?" she insisted, staring at the piece of paper that had appeared on the fax machine.
He tossed the ball again. Thought. Caught it. He looked up at her, glancing towards the paper then back at her. It was late. Very late. The lab had rushed the toxicology report at Sawyer's insistence. Ilse was beginning to resent that they wouldn't take her say so. Then again, she was only a first-year agent. A rookie. Her years as a therapist didn't matter here.
