It was a real laugh.
That was the most disturbing thing about it.
"How long," he said, when the laugh had finished. His voice was different now. The warmth was gone and what was left was something cleaner and colder and in its own way more honest, the voice of a man who had decided that the performance was over and was discovering that the decision felt like exhaling after holding your breath for a very long time.
"Long enough," I said.
"The office," he said.
"Yes."
"I wondered," he said, "when you put the camera there. I found it in the first sweep but I decided to leave it. I thought it might be useful." A pause. "I wanted you to see the office. I wanted you to know someone had been there. I just didn't intend for you to know who."
"You covered the lens after looking into it," I s
