“Office 104, at the very end of the hall,” she said.

“Thank you,” I murmured, my stomach turning as we walked past her desk.

The corridor was lined with heavy wooden doors, each fitted with a small, reinforced glass window.

From behind one of the doors, I heard a faint, rhythmic tapping sound, like fingernails scraping against dry wood.

I pressed closer to Charles, my boots squeaking loudly on the clean, cold linoleum.

We reached the door labeled *104: Dr. Kenneth, Chief Administrator*.

Charles knocked twice on the heavy wood.

“Come in,” a muffled voice called from inside.

Charles opened the door, and we stepped into a warm, wood-paneled office that smelled of old paper and pipe tobacco.

A man in his late fifties sat behind a large mahogany desk cluttered with manila folders and medical charts.

He had thin, combed-back hair and wire-rimmed glasses that caught the light of a green shaded desk lamp.

“Mr. Whitmore,” Dr. Kenneth said, rising from his leather chair and extending a hand across the desk.

“I must confess, I did not expect to receive any visitors tonight, let alone someone of your stature.”