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I’ll grit my teeth and bear it.
I stop spiraling long enough to step out of my car. Vincent makes his way toward me and gives a subtle nod. He’s clean shaven and dressed in a grey college hoodie I haven’t seen him wear in years.
“John Briggs,” he says, before I can ask the question. “Thirty-six years old. No arrest record. Unemployed but used to work at the Isleton County Hospital.”
Yup. Just like old times. We head toward the house without a word until we reach the front of the driveway.
John’s house is…unkempt, to say the least.
“It looks like a fucking bomb went off here,” I murmur. Broken table legs and two white plastic chairs lie haphazardly on the overgrown front lawn. An unwashed, dusty brown SUV sits in the driveway with a flat tire.
The window next to the front door is covered with aluminum foil.
It’s not that I haven’t seen shitty houses before—but compared to the others in the neighborhood, this looks abandoned.
Vincent simply nods at my observation, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
He’s in the zone. Quiet, contemplative, and calculating.
Just like he used to be.
He’s always been the leader of our investigations. Even in the last devastating case we all worked on together, he led the charge.
Which ultimately ruined him.
I stop that train of thought as we head up the porch steps. The wood creaks as we walk on it, and I feel it slightly give way.
“This thing is about to collapse,” I mutter. “What the fuck?”
At one time, this would have been a nice house. It’s like someone just gave up on it.
And the smell. Even through the door, something musty and thick pours its way to the porch.
Vincent looks down at the wood, grunts, then knocks on the door.
No response. I sigh.
Vincent knocks louder, the door frame rattling obnoxiously. He tries the door handle, jiggling it.
That’s dangerous territory. We can’t just walk in. If the door was unlocked, maybe, but it would be a nightmare of paperwork if someone complained.
“They’re obviously not home,” I say as he stares at the door. “Maybe Ben could get a warrant expedited. Or, shit, let’s go to Slatten?—”
SLAM!
It takes me a moment to realize Vincent just kicked the goddamn door open. He doesn’t even hesitate. He charges inside and I follow after him, shocked.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I hiss. “There are neighbors, you fucking idiot! What if they saw—oh shit?—"
The smell that was wafting onto the porch is a hundred times stronger in the front room. It’s a combination of sour food and rot.
I swallow down a gag while Vincent explores the house, ignoring my protests.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, shutting the door the best I can. I decide to take a look around myself.
The front room is destroyed. A couch is flipped, and a bunch of moving boxes are open and spilled to the side with random contents. A package of pens, a bottle of bathroom cleaner, and more miscellaneous items litter the tiled floor. Empty pizza boxes are scattered around.
The tiles are chipped and cracked and some are stained with feces.
