The door creaked open with a reluctant groan, like the building itself resented our return. I stepped inside first, the air stale and metallic—still laced with the ghost of blood, disinfectant, and something darker.
Denise followed without hesitation, her sharp eyes scanning the dim interior. Every corner, every shadow, seemed to whisper what had happened here.
The place hadn't changed. That mattress in the corner—where I had been laid—was still there, though now it felt like an anchor to some forgotten nightmare. Janica's mattress was near the door, untouched, cold, a silent witness to everything that had unfolded. I swallowed hard.
The police were here, of course.They didn't speak, but their presence was heavy in the air, filling the space with an unspoken tension.
Denise moved past me, slow and methodical, like she was collecting memories from the air. I knew she wasn't just looking for clues—she was measuring the truth in my silence.
She turned suddenly, her voice low but sharp. "Where exactly did it happen?"
I pointed. "There. That wall. That's where she was... when the doctor came in."
Her expression hardened. She walked over, crouched, touched the cold floor. "And anything else?"
I nodded, jaw tight. "A masked man hit me here. I pulled at his mask—saw part of his face. A scar. Sharp. Deep."
She stood slowly. "Did you recognize him?"
"I didn't. Not then. But I've been thinking about it ever since."
A pause.
Then I added, "The scar... and the eyes. I've seen them before. Years ago. At St. Mark's Haven."
Denise froze. "Your childhood home?"
I nodded. "There was a man who used to come around. Never spoke. Just watched. Always in black. I thought he was a donor. But one of the older boys said he wasn't."
"What was he?"
I met her gaze, voice gravel. "A cleaner I think."
Denise went silent for a long beat.
Then she exhaled slowly. "This goes deeper than we thought."