From Negative Space...
“I told you – I don’t have a sister.”
“Not one you know of, perhaps. Your father did disappear, after all. But for all I know she could be some psycho with a thing for artists. I felt it best to at least inform you.”
“You think she’s dangerous?”
“Personally, no, not at all. But you never know. She got some bogus address for you, from somewhere I don’t know.”
“What did she look like?”
Suddenly there was another knock, a heart palpitation on the door. Max said, “Wait, hold that thought,” and went to get it. It was one of his neighbors, a man whose tongue was a sea of Spanish with small islands of English, and he appeared to be complaining about something.
As Max dealt with him, Ritter’s gaze began to wander, much as it had when he was on the job and doing the interview. It circled the apartment, slow and curious, and suddenly his head snapped towards the floor, fixated on something across the way. Ritter stepped over newspapers and Taco Shack bags and art supplies, keeping his gaze locked on what turned out to be Max’s open sketchbook.
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