Without another word, he disappears outside. From the door's window, I watch him cross the circular driveway towards the media along the border of the property. As soon as one reporter recognizes him, they all rush forward like chickens in a feeding frenzy.
I'm too numb to move. I try to visualize Angie's killer slouched over the table in one of the interrogation rooms at the Vancouver detachment. I know the investigators. They're good at what they do. They'll pound the questions at him.
The stabbing pain in my neck worsens. Wincing, I return to the kitchen. All around me the aromas of poultry, minced pies, cabbage rolls, and chilli remind me that two finger sandwiches aren’t a decent meal. I skim the platters of ham and cheeses on the counter next to the freezer while reminiscing about
