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Ford nods.

Lionel adopted an old tabby a couple of years ago after his wife left him. Probably the only reason he kept his life together even a little bit over the past few years.

“Lionel.” I try again, banging harder but not aggressively enough to get the neighbors out.

I tip my head.

Ford’s got the gun, so I let him slip past me while I play backup.

Ford carries; I don’t. Personal choice. We’re not cops, so we don’t do this often, but we’ve trained well enough. I try the handle. It doesn’t twist, but the door latch is broken, so I yank it open.

Ford moves in with his gun high. I follow.

The hallway’s clear. To the right is the tiny kitchen.

Ford freezes, his jaw clenching, before moving on. I glance in as I go by, and my stomach churns. There’s a chair in the cramped space, with cut ties on the legs and back. On the floor, splatters of blood.

Lionel.

The combined living and dining room is empty. I point my head to the hallway.

Chipps meows loudly, snaking around my leg.

The bathroom and lone bedroom are clear, too. Closets are empty.

“No one here,” Ford says, holstering his weapon.

I’m already headed for the kitchen.

Ford comes up next to me a moment later. “Tortured.”

I scan the blood splatters. There are a lot, but no big puddles like you’d see with more lethal injuries. “Not for long.”

“Not here, anyway,” Ford says.

Chipps meows again. His bowls are empty—food and water. I pick him up and head to the bathroom. The toilet’s empty, too. I return to the kitchen where I know Lionel keeps the food. “He’s been on his own a couple days.”

I stroke the cat behind the ears before dropping him to the ground and grabbing the bag under the sink. The garbage under there is festering. I hold my breath, grateful it’s nothing worse I’m trying not to smell.

But when I shut the door, I grimace. Because there, in the sink, are more blood splatters. Three, to be exact, and in the middle of each, a white molar tooth.

“Jesus,” Ford says.

I top up Chipps’s water, even though we’re not leaving him here.

“What do you think?” he asks me.

“I think I’m glad Chipps is out of food.”

What they say about cats is true—they’ll eat whatever’s available if they’re desperate. I know we both feared the worst when we saw that broken doorframe.

Ford gives me a grim nod. “Agreed.” Ford pops his jaw. “So if Lionel’s not here, where the hell is he?”

I walk around the apartment, taking it all in. The place is trashed: the mattress and couch cushions are slashed, drawers have been pulled open, and shit’s been emptied onto the floor. Except for the mess, there’s still not much here. Compared to Chester’s place the other day, there’s not much evidence someone even lives here. The sadness of that makes me bring my fingers to my chest, rubbing like there’s a wound there.

Except…the dining room is messier than the rest of the place. Giant rolls of paper lay strewn on the tabletop and floor.

I walk over and open one up.