Joey dropped the album on the table and slowly turned. He closed his eyes. "Oh, God!" he whispered. "No! No!"
Like a sleep-walker, he moved to the silent figure, knelt, searched in vain for pulse or heart-beat. There was none. Jason Ewing was dead.
Joey stared at the andiron with its tell-tale stain. He pulled himself up to a half-crouch and looked wildly around the dark living-room. The camera was an accusing eye. "It was an accident," he murmured. "His heart. He was an old man."
The photo album still lay open on the table.
Ewing had saved two pictures. One of himself. The other....
There was a heavy knocking at the front door.
Joey went shakily to the album. Gripping the table's edge, he turned to the second picture:
Joey Barrett sat in a chair. His trousers were slit. His head was shaved and there were straps and electrodes.
It was the kind of picture that would sell a thousand extra copies.