Not a colleague, or a friend. And not for advice, not like with the Reddit group. He’d sent it to one other person—out of pure spite.

He opened his mouth to try to tell her—but it was too late. Now his jaw wouldn’t move. His lips were open, but his face was frozen in place. The woman watched him for a second longer, then turned and headed back to his computer. As he stared, unable to blink, she held something small and metallic against the base of the keyboard, and suddenly the screen blurred, then went blank.

The woman turned back to look at Charles one last time, splayed out on the floor.

His eyes were still open, but the pupils were growing larger, and wider, and rounder.

And then everything went dark.

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Well, what have we got here,” the burly, pug-nosed homicide detective growled, as he caught sight of Zack Lindwell entering the sixth-floor hotel room from the crime scene staging area that now took up much of the hallway outside. “You must have gotten off on the wrong floor, Lindsy. This one is way below your pay grade.”

Zack faked a smile as he picked his way between two CSI rats in white smocks and matching gloves who were on their knees on the beige rug, measuring shoe prints. Another half dozen of the Boston area’s finest hair-follicle and carpet-fiber collectors were between Zack and the state police detective, who was over by the body in the chair, but they didn’t look up from their work.

“I don’t know, Detective Marsh. There’s a Koons in the lobby and a Lichtenstein about two feet from where you’re standing. I think I’m right where I belong.”

Marsh glanced at the cartoonish painting above the bed, then snorted, unimpressed.

“That thing qualifies for a visit from Quantico? Well, it’s still on the wall. You can head back to your buddies at Art Crimes and tell them to stop wetting their pants. And if the ME finds a Picasso rolled up in this guy’s intestines, I’ll be the first to let you know.”