On second thought, this is a really fitting place for Raymond to die.
I hope they stow his body in a room with a jackass on the knocker until the coroner comes to collect him.
I slip inside THE ICE ROOM—and yes, I do pronounce it with a posh, snotty, of-course-I-went-to-Exeter-boarding-school, why-do-you-ask voice in my head—and immediately freeze.
The Ice Room, as it turns out, is more of a utility closet with more of the pheasant wallpaper. It’s a tiny green-tiled cube with a hulking ice machine humming against the far wall and a vending machine next to it stocked with five-dollar Pringles and twelve-dollar Kit Kats. Everything is washed in bright white light from the bare bulb cam lighting overhead.
And by everything, I mean Matvei.
My eyes start at the floor and travel up slowly l
