I waited until his quick footsteps faded down the back corridor, then gathered my towels and went back into the master bedroom at half past two.

Raymond was sitting up, watching the brass door handle turn as I pushed the heavy door shut and locked it behind me.

“Brandon Vance is twenty-nine years old,” I said, resting my hands on the footboard of his bed.

Raymond sat completely still, his eyes locked on my face.

“He grew up in three foster homes between Bellevue and Renton,” I said, my voice steadying as the facts came together.

“He worked as a dishwasher at the diner on Fourth Street until six months ago.”