BOOK 7

Jackson stood in the doorway to Penny’s apartment, frowning as he surveyed the destruction. His first impulse was to locate the maintenance office and request a shovel, but he refrained and instead took mental notes. The place looked ransacked, or perhaps a bomb had gone off, leaving the walls and ceiling intact but destroying everything else. Or maybe someone had left in a big hurry.

Half of the cushions of the yellow and orange striped couch were on the floor; the others were buried beneath layers of clothing, towels and plates stuck with stale, half-eaten food that he estimated were at least a week old. In the dim light, he couldn’t see enough of the carpet to determine what color it was supposed to be, but he guessed a murky brown.

The suffocating smell of debris and musty air infused the room. Wads of paper, Styrofoam cups and cereal boxes littered the small kitchen table to his left. Three of the red vinyl chairs were askew; the fourth was turned over. Was it on its side because