At the end of the hallway was an office. An office turned junk room, by the looks of it. A desk carrying an old desktop computer sat against the far wall, directly under a window. The modem had been left on, and it emitted a bright red light that shone through the room. On the other wall was a sewing machine. In the corner was a file cabinet and in the center of the room sat an ironing board. She peeked into the closet, but it only held some boxes and fabric, sewing supplies, a stack of printer paper.

Whitney jerked at the sound of a mattress creaking, shifting, feet shuffling on the ground. A clearing of the throat, a loud cough. She slipped inside the closet, but she was too claustrophobic to close the door all the way.

The sound of a toilet flushing came from the couple’s bedroom. More coughing. More throat clearing. Footsteps in the hallway.

Shit.

Whitney’s heartbeat drew attention to itself. She swallowed hard. Gulped in a tight breath.

The footsteps retreated. She heard a cabinet door opening and closing. Water turning on. The clink of a cup on the counter and then footsteps nearing her again.

She slunk back, biting her lip.

The relief she felt was palpable when the footsteps stopped, and she heard the creak of the mattress again.

Whitney wanted to get the hell out of there, but knew she had to be patient. Sitting in the closet, she focused on even breathing, as her heart beat out of control. Her skin broke out in a sweat that made her shudder. Her elbow jabbed the corner of the box next to her. Since the door was open, a sliver of red light poured in, revealing the words written on top in black marker.

FOSTER KIDS

She looked up, tuning in. The snoring had returned. Whitney carefully lifted the lid from the box. It was filled with pictures, coloring pages, some old school papers that reminded her of ones she’d saved of Amelia’s. She picked up a few of the pictures, drew them close to her face to try to make out what she could. They all seemed to be of children.

Had they been foster parents?

The more she discovered in this house, the less guilty they appeared. Still, she wasn’t ready to give up yet.

After crawling out of the closet, she stood up. Her knees cracked with the effort. Internally, she cursed her aging joints.

Hurrying out of the office, she made it back out into the family room. She glanced into the kitchen, at the glass on the counter, half-filled with water. Beyond it was a door which probably led to the garage. It was the only place she hadn’t looked.