I slip out of the car and stand, taking in the street with my hands on my hips. I smell fire, but no smoke comes from the chimney. One or two slats of the roof are missing, and the corroded gutter slopes under the weight of leaves and branches.

Behind me, I hear Florence Haines arguing with her husband. The car doors open.

“Please, if you don’t mind—” Ben’s voice mixes with the crisp autumn air. “Stay in the car until we give the all-clear.”

Free papers decay on the front steps, and a stale scent emanates from the door. There’s nothing to indicate anyone’s inside, but the sense of unease increases as I follow Ben up the weed-strewn walkway.

Ben knocks. “Police.”

I sense curtains shifting in the other houses.

He knocks again. Looks at me.

I step forward to try the handle.

It’s unlocked.

That prickly feeling crawls over my skin again.

I push the door open with my fingertips. It swings forward easily.

The smell of disuse is even stronger from inside. A plaid sofa sighs in the middle of the floor next to a wooden chair. A folding card table leans against the opposite wall.

“Police,” Ben yells a second time. We advance, and a floorboard creaks. I spin around, but there’s nothing besides an unframed mirror and my own perverse reflection in the tarnished glass.

There are two bedrooms. Both empty. The primary one, if you can call it that, with the bed neatly made. Yellow Gadsden “Don’t Tread on Me” flag hanging next to a black poster with the words “Marines Don’t Die, We Regroup in Hell.”

I shake my head. It’s clear this is our landlord and he’s missed the irony of his decorations.

The second bedroom consists of nothing but a sheetless twin mattress on the floor, a handful of wire hangers in the closet, and a cardboard box that seems to have been used as a dresser drawer.

I bend to examine its contents and frown. Underneath a dirty T-shirt is a stack of textbooks and a lined yellow notepad. Pens and pencils roll at the bottom. Not a dresser, I think, but a desk, and the only indication that this room was occupied by a student.

Behind me comes another creak of the floorboards and a gasp. Florence stands at the bedroom entrance with a hand over her mouth.

“He’s not here,” I tell her.

She shakes her head, eyes on the cardboard box.

“No,” she whispers.

Her husband’s followed her into the house. Through the bedroom door, I see him standing in the middle of the living room, swinging his head from side to side.

“We gave him an allowance,” he blurts. “Money. Every month.”