Ellen’s Point of View

I hurried up the worn stairs of Kinsley’s old building, clutching a bag of takeout I had picked up on the way. She had sounded down when we talked on the phone earlier, and I figured comfort food might help.

But as I reached her floor, my steps slowed. The door to her apartment hung open, the wood around the lock splintered as if someone had kicked it in with force.

My stomach dropped. I pushed the door wider and stepped inside carefully.

The place was ...