Hannah!” called a booming voice.
Without turning, I recognized the baritone of Fritz Waldheim, a policeman at Alexanderplatz. A voice that had never before frightened me. “Here for the reports?”
I drew my hand back from the photograph and cleared my throat. “Of course,” I called.
My damp skirt brushed my calves as I trudged down the hall to his office in the Criminal Investigations Department, struggling to bring my emotions under control. Feel nothing now, I told myself. You can feel it later, but not until after you leave the police station.
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