Four hours, six feet of mug books, and one police artist later, I think everyone wished I had disappeared.
“How’s this, Miss Stanley?” the artist asked for the umpteenth time.
I looked at the much-erased sketch for a moment, then at the tired artist. “It’s very nice.”
“But does it look like the man you saw?” If he’d been six instead of twenty-six, I’d have said he was whining.
Behind him, Willis was banging his head lightly, rhythmically, against the wall. Kel was stretched out in a chair, his hands clasped behind his head as he studied the ceiling. Dillon paced between us like a caged lion.
“No…”
Their frustrated sighs almost blew me out the door. I had to do something before they turned ugly. I took the sketch book and pencil.
“May I?” Without waiting for his answer, I flipped to
