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He raised the glass to his lips and took a drink. It was a terrible wine, but it had served its purpose well. That remark about not having the taste for such a fine wine had been sheer genius on his part. It had gotten that backwoods hick bastard to drink the whole glass right down.
He set the wine down on the coffee table. Good God, this was tacky furniture. He couldn't wait to get out of this place. He just needed to pack up his briefcase and be on his way. Might be a good idea to take the wineglass with him. His fingerprints were all over it.
No. It was better to wash it off and put it back in the cupboard.
That done, he took one last look around the room. Everything he'd touched was wiped clean. Everything he'd brought with him he'd locked in his briefcase except for the syringe, still lodged in Derek's arm despite the convulsions. He picked up his raincoat and umbrella and headed for the door, congratulating himself on a job well done.
At that moment, he heard the scritching sound of a key in the lock and saw the doorknob move. He froze on the spot in horror.