The latch had been taped over with a strip of black electrical tape.

My chest tightened as I peeled the tape off and let the door click shut behind me.

I didn’t take the elevator.

Instead, I took the service stairs, my boots making no sound on the concrete steps.

I reached the third floor, my breath shallow.

The hallway smelled of old carpets and floor wax.

At the end of the corridor, the door to unit 3B stood open by two inches.

A thin wedge of yellow light spilled onto the carpet.

I slipped my hand into my coat pocket, fingers closing around the cold brass of my tactical pen.

It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was all I had.

I pushed the door open with the toe of my boot.

The apartment was dead quiet.

The air smelled of ozone and spilled tea.

My small living room had been torn apart.

The bookshelves were bare, the novels and military histories piled in a heap on the floor.

The cushions of my armchair had been sliced open, the white stuffing spilling out like snow.