"You look surprised."
Marianne studied the room before returning her attention to Charles.
"Didn't expect me to find you?"
The Photographer—leaning against the kitchen counter in his unbuttoned shirt—glanced at the bulky machine in Marianne's hand.
"Not so readily," he answered.
"You are chipped." With her pink nails, she tapped on the screen of the machine. "Any resident can find you if they have enough sway."
She leaned back in her chair. It was the only one in the room.
"So?"
Charles looked at her questioningly. "Yes?"
"Any progress?"
The man shook his head. "Nobody knows where to find her."
"Of course, they don't…" she whispered. "You can't hope to obtain anything of substance from the… uncultured, shall we call them?"
Eyes on the fridge door, Charles swallowed nervously. Marianne's picture seemed to taunt him.
She hadn't noticed it yet, and he didn't want her to see.
"As for—"
"I went to a gallery," he interjected.
She raised a well-shaped eyebrow. "Good."
