He held letters up to his phone one at a time, looking for a name. Most were addressed to “resident” or “current occupant,” but eventually he found a letter from the Pennsylvania Department of Corrections. The name was the one he expected to find: “Kirby Tate.”

The sound of someone testing the front door startled him. The doorknob was only inches from his face, and he looked up in rapt fascination as it turned back and forth. He hadn’t heard a car pull up the driveway. Could it be a neighbor stopping by? Did Tate have friends? More likely Jenn or Hendricks had forgotten something and come back for it. Or for you, a voice whispered uncharitably in his head.

He shoved the letter into a pocket and backed away from the door. With the element of surprise, he would have the advantage with one, but if both had come back, then he had no chance. He didn’t feel like waiting around to find out. The glinting sound of metal on metal whispered through the silent house, but thankfully the door didn’t open. He remembered a closet near the kitchen and slunk backward among the trash piles. Would they kill him? Had it gone that far?

He slipped into the closet, put his back against the wall, and slid down into a crouch. He couldn’t get the door all the way shut behind him, because there was no handle on the inside. It was wet beneath his feet and smelled like piss. He put his phone in airplane mode and listened to the front door swing open.

As far as he could tell there was only one of them. Whoever “them” was. The intruder didn’t call out and didn’t switch on the lights. He heard the front door shut quietly. A flashlight came on, and through the crack in the door he saw the beam dance across the walls. He had been very aware of the creak of the floorboards when he had first arrived, but whoever was moving through the house either knew it exceptionally well or moved like a ghost. He could hear their footfalls, but only because every ounce of his concentration was focused on listening for them. A strobe went off. Then another and another. Pictures. Someone was moving through the house, taking pictures. Methodically taking an inventory of every room. Did that include closets?

If the door opened, he was going to hit them low and hard. Keep hitting them until they stopped moving. He was worried, though, that he would slip in the soupy mush under his feet. He moved slowly, shifting his feet, seeking a dry surface to brace against.