“Holy shit,” Yarmark breathed. “That’s some crazy fucking shit. Why the hell would he tell you to do that?”

“I’m psyching myself up, just about to do it, when Robinson starts laughing. The fat fuck laughs so hard he turns purple, and he honest to God falls down, and Foley’s laughing, and then Peterson and his partner, this woman named Liebowitz, they’re there, and they’re laughing, and . . . hell.” Somers grinned and held up three fingers. “Blowup doll with a plastic gun behind the shower curtain; mannequin; fake blood.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I shit you not.”

“You are. You’re shitting me.”

Ahead of them, another opening connected this room to the next. Here, though, a hallway also broke off to the right and left; when Somers shined the flashlight down the hall, he could see doorways. Some had doors rotting in the frame, while others were completely open.

“What happened?” Yarmark asked as Somers waved for him to follow to the right.

They checked doorways as they went, and their flashlights provided the only light. This section had obviously been built after the original structure; Somers wasn’t sure of the history, but looking at the framing and the drywall and the ancient wallpaper, he guessed that maybe another company had briefly occupied the Sexten Motors building. They may have needed more office space, or something like that. When they got to the end of the hall, Somers turned and glanced back. It all had definitely been built before employee satisfaction had ever been a concern; they hadn’t installed a single window.

“Nothing happened,” Somers said. “I mean, besides almost having to take that dumb fuck Robinson to the hospital because we thought he was having a heart attack, he was laughing so hard.”

“But, like, didn’t you report it or—”

“Nah,” Somers said, shaking his head. Stabbing ahead with the flashlight, he took a step, then stopped. He could smell the hot, humid air from outside. He even thought he could smell honeysuckle. All of it was very faint, but in contrast to the smell of moldering wood and dank brick, it was noticeable. He turned back.

With every step he took toward the end of the hall, the smell got stronger. The wall was simple: lath and plaster, wood trim, paint flecked with sand to hide imperfections. Something was wrong, though. On one side of the wall, the plaster had chipped, exposing ancient laths behind it. Had they walled off a window behind here? Why?

“Earlier today,” Yarmark said, his voice subdued. “In the jail.”

Somers leaned closer; the smell—sun-warmed brick and gravel dust and honeysuckle—was definitely stronger. If there wasn’t a window behind this wall, there was an opening of some kind. But was it just a structural crack? Something animals might have widened?

“I just want you to know that’s not me,” Yarmark said. “I fucked up, and I’ll own that. But that’s not me.”

Somers glanced back at him; Yarmark’s skinny face looked sallow in the weak light, but he met Somers’s gaze.