SIXTEEN
MY WATCH GAVE THE TIME as 20h03.
Debbie Feinstein sat on the edge of one of the chairs with the file folder perched on her knees. She leaned forward, looking like she was straining to see something further down the hallway, the opposite direction from which we’d come.
I frowned at her and rotated my hands at her in a what’s-up gesture. She shot me an expression that seemed both incredulous and confused—I was unsure which—then sat back and shook her head at me.
She dug out her phone from somewhere, looked blankly off to the wall, then back down again and typed something. A flurry of thumbs, then a pause. She’d run a search on something.
I was intrigued, but didn’t have time to ask her about it. I heard some faint sounds suddenly enter the broad hallway as if someone had opened
