He picked it up with his gloved hand and laid it on the desk beside Priya's dark laptop.
El papel era un desastre de color para niños.
Una figura de palo de pelo amarillo.
A tall figure in black.
Una botella se volcó sobre una taza.
Y en la esquina inferior, en números cuidadosos y temblorosos, la hora que había escrito aquella mañana: 8:12.
Below it, fainter, pressed hard enough to dent the page: six minutes more.
Reeves leaned in.
"What is this?"
"Su nombre es Martin Vale"
He dicho.
"Ese es él.
Ese soy yo.
Esa es la botella que me trajo.
And that number is the time my five-year-old housekeeper's daughter heard him say, 'Once she takes it, it's done.' The rest of that drawing was in the dining room ten minutes ago.
So were the pills and the bottle.
All of it is gone now."
