I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment to silence those noisy thoughts. Before they can return, I nudge the door open a few more inches and steal a peek inside.

The entryway looks clear. No suspects. No trip wires or cameras, either.

Just a hint of that indigo light emanating from somewhere farther inside.

Raising my gun, I push the door open all the way and “slice the pie”—a police technique for spinning while entering a hostile space to maximize cover and visibility.

The moment I step inside, a harsh stench burns my nostrils.

It’s not mold or drugs or a rotting body, the stuff you’d expect to find inside a vacant home. It’s some kind of industrial-strength chemicals. God only knows what for.

Keeping my sidearm aimed high and my senses sharp, I pad down the dark, claustrophobically narrow hallway. With every step, the wood floor creaks and groans.

I pass by what was once the living room. Empty.

The dining room. Empty.

I round a corner and reach the master bedroom. Empty.

But I can see where the purple light is coming from: the kitchen.

I can hear those garbled voices, too. Sounds like they’re speaking … Spanish?

I edge closer. Closer. Closer. Until I’m standing right by the kitchen doorway.

I brace myself. I slice the pie again.

“Police!” I yell. “Don’t move!”

I’m gut-struck by what I see.

Nothing and nobody.

Huh?

The whole kitchen has a ghostly violet hue—thanks to a portable camping lantern with a tinted bulb resting on one of the counters.

And those Spanish-speakers, it turns out, are just voices from a radio call-in show, wafting from a cheap plastic boom box nearby.

I moan with rage and despair. Deep and guttural.

This place was the safe house! Something was going on in here!

But what?

I glance around the bizarre scene, scanning for any clues.

I realize my fingernails and the threads in my clothes are glowing white, which tells me the tinted bulb is probably a UV black light.

But why? I thought these bastards were building a bomb, not a nightclub.

And how come they just left all this shit in here? Did they rush out in a hurry and forget it? Or was it intentional, some kind of calling card, a cryptic message for whoever found it?

None of it makes any sense.

Any goddamn sense at all.

In a fit of fury, I sweep the radio off the counter and stomp on it. It shatters into pieces, making the voices sound garbled and distorted. I hit it again with my foot and the voices stop.

My head starts to throb. My knees begin to wobble.

I sink to the filthy linoleum floor. Drowning in helplessness and desperation.

My investigation just hit another dead end.

The trail has run bone-dry.

I can’t move. I can’t think. I can’t even stand.

I’ve got nothing.