The House on West Street
They arrived at a house that looked like it was mourning itself. The curtains were drawn tight, and the porch was littered with old mail. Toby led the way, running toward the door with a sudden burst of energy.
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“The door is open!” Toby cried out. “I left it open for you!”
The team burst inside. The air was heavy and smelled of copper and neglect. In the back bedroom, they found her. She was a young woman, no more than twenty-five, curled into a ball on a mattress that had no sheets. She was as pale as marble.
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On the nightstand sat three empty insulin vials and a stack of unpaid utility bills.
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