Finally, heavy footsteps descend the stairs, unhurried and steady. Locke appears back in the doorway, his broad frame filling the entrance, his sidearm smoothly back in its leather holster.
“Clear,” he calls out. “Come in.”
Willow and I cross the threshold into the grand entryway.
The pristine, sterile showroom house I was forced to maintain for four years is completely gone. In its place is a war zone of domestic decay.
The marble floor of the foyer is dirty, tracked through with mud and dark boot prints. Discarded designer clothing, empty shoe boxes, and crumpled wrapping paper litter the hallway.
The double doors leading into the main living room stand wide open, revealing couch cushions thrown onto the floor, decorative vases smashed in the corners, and open cardboard boxes sitti
