The lobby of the building smelled of fried onions and damp carpet.

I did not use the elevator here; I walked up the narrow concrete stairs to the second floor.

The door to apartment 2B was slightly ajar.

A strip of yellow light spilled out into the dim hallway.

I pushed the door open with my hand.

The room was small, containing only a sagging vinyl sofa and a television set that hummed with static.

Victor sat on the edge of the sofa, his head in his hands.

He had taken off his suit jacket, and his white shirt was yellowed with sweat at the collar.

The green plastic key ring sat on the laminate kitchen counter, exactly as it had appeared in the text message.

“How did you get in?” he asked without looking up.

“The lock is broken, Victor,” I said. “It has been broken for three years.”

He raised his head, his eyes bloodshot and watery.

His hair was uncombed, sticking to his forehead in thin, graying strands.

“I built that company from a single office in Tacoma,” he said.