I put it in the lining of a photo of me and my wife in my office.”
“And where is the photo now?”
“Still in my office, I assume,” Castor said. He had short salt-and-pepper hair and a five-o’clock shadow. “You’re not Bianca,” he said, stopping short as he looked at her in confusion. Amber would never grace the cover of a lingerie magazine, but she was not unattractive. Once she’d slipped on the clean top, she did the same with the pants, sliding khakis stained with droplets of blood over generous hips and a shapely ass, discarding them in favor of the freshly laundered pants. I think we’re done here.” She glanced up at a camera hanging in the corner. It was a collection of large glass cylinders and spheres combined in an avant-garde design. She stripped off her blouse, exposing a pair of breasts held in a plain D-cup bra and a feminine belly—soft and supple. As she ascended the stairs, Amber approached the front door just as a police officer emerged and held the door open.
