23
I really can’t understand what he’s saying for a second. Then the realisation slowly dawns on me, not yet a fully-fledged imprint on my consciousness, like the mark seared into the table by the scorching iron.
“How did she die?” I ask at last.
The envelope burns my fingers; I throw it onto the table.
“What difference does it make? Let’s say, she was sitting on the window ledge and lost her balance. I’ll give you two possibilities: either she just lost her balance, or I gave her a helping hand.”
“You killed her, you bastard!”
I leap up, wanting to smash my glass into that round, smiling, rosy-cheeked face, but Gamma somehow manages to catch my hand.
“Sit down!” he orders, and I do sit down; that last outburst has sapped all my strength. “Are you going to report me?”
I say nothing
