Wallace snapped, jumping back as hot liquid dripped off the edge of the desk onto his dark trousers.

He put the unused syringe down on the wooden tray and grabbed a handful of paper towels to wipe off his wet leather binder.

The morning sun hadn’t reached the tall double windows of the west wing yet when I stepped into Mr.

Winslow’s bedroom.

The old electric radiator in the corner hummed with a low metallic vibration, pushing warm air across the pine-waxed floor.

On the nightstand, yesterday afternoon’s porcelain tea tray still sat untouched beside an empty water glass.