Booker crept around the exterior of the house, close to the windows. Pressing a hand against a pane of glass, he squinted inside. From what little he saw, all shades and silhouettes draped in dimness and darkness, the place looked inhabited. Furnished, at least. In a semi-circular bulge at the house’s northeastern corner, a series of tall chairs surrounded an antique table—a dining room? Booker pushed away and continued his patrol. He kept his torch-beam pointed low, not wanting to give too much notice of his position.

Something jangled at the rear of the house. Booker paused, hand hesitating over holster. He slowed down, his step-by-step creep decelerating into a quiet inching. Withdrawing his hand away from his sidearm’s grip, he palmed the flashlight bulb, blinding it.

The sound repeated, louder. It jangle-clanked, a noise like something breaking.

Booker approached the northwest corner of the home. Red glow seeped out between his fingers.

Around the corner, a door crashed open. Booker pressed his back against the antique siding. Had the night air suddenly chilled? Everything felt colder. Booker took a breath. He lowered his right hand back to his pistol and gripped it. Slid it slowly out of the holster.

What the hell had just happened? And where the hell was Virgil?

(do you—)

He turned the corner. The house’s back door hung obviously open. Someone had broken off the handle. He angled his flashlight around the gape and into the dark. It revealed an antique mudroom, a wooden bench and plastic-covered mirror. Beyond the narrow entryway, dimness held dominion.

“Virgil?” Booker whispered at the night. “Virgil.”

He heard no response.

He hesitated. After several more seconds, insect chirr mixing with his pulse thumping in his temples, Booker gave one more attempt. “Virgil!” he stage-whispered, throat hoarse with restraint. Heartbeats thumped off time. Again, no reply emerged.

Booker scowled. He peered between the pressing darkness of the night and the pressing dimness of the house’s mudroom. He hoped Virgil LeDuff would turn the corner, the probable cause for entry located, and follow him.

No such luck.

(do you remember me?)

Flashlight-under-pistol, Booker shouldered the door gently aside. He entered the house.

(I remember you)