Dr.

Wallace stood up, took a thick white envelope off the desk blotter, and slid it straight into the inside pocket of his coat without counting what was in it.

Christopher turned toward the door, and I took three quick, quiet steps back into the main corridor.

“Your lunch tray, Mr.

Winslow,” I said as Christopher pulled the study door wide open.

He looked down at the soup bowl, his thin lips pressing into a hard, straight line.