THIRTEEN
They entered unit 810. Angie had never been in this unit, before or after the murder.
“I thought you’d be able to meet Dad,” Josh said, “but I don’t think he’s here.”
“Another time,” Angie said.
“Let’s go over there,” he said, motioning toward the couch. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“No, thank you.”
Josh turned to the kitchen as Angie made her way to the couch. She glanced around at the furnishings. Decidedly masculine. Black leather furniture, glass tables, a large flat screen TV hung on the wall. Otherwise, the walls were devoid of art or any decoration. The room left her with a cold impression.
When he came out, Josh was carrying a tray holding two glasses and a bottle of wine. He sat the tray on a table in front of the couch and poured wine into the glasses.
“Here
