The Inspector moves, very slowly bringing the other into view. She stares—or rather, as an agent of the Witness whose closed evidentiary scene has been violated by an unsanctioned person, she observes and glowers. She cannot tell absolutely if this person is male or female. Possibly there is no perfect answer. Lönnrot is lean and elegant, with beautiful hands, the fingers narrow and presently steepled. The expression on the androgynous face is quizzical. It might be wryly appreciative, or perhaps mocking. Lönnrot wears black clothes: a black crew neck, black jacket. Black trousers. Black boots with Cuban heels. Black hair, too-white skin. Something suggestive of surgery or disease. Shoulders quite square, but slender. A pop idol, now retired; a would-be vampire; a club owner. A sociopath. A method actor. A classic Warhol image come to life. Attributions skitter across the pale face, slip away. No frame. And no data connection, because the house is a Faraday cage. For the first time in her adult life, the Inspector has no idea who she’s talking to.