The foyer was empty and dark. It smelled of thick humidity and somewhere I heard the slow drip of water falling on water. There was a broken chair next to the door. The stuffing of its seat was sliced through and a spring poked out of it. A floorboard creaked at the top of the stairs. A shadow stood on the landing; a heavyset man, from the looks of his silhouette. “She’s up here,” he said and disappeared into a doorway.

The room he lead me into stank even more of water and age. Dr. David Green looked to be about 62 years old, with one foot already in the grave. He was permanently hunched over, folded into his old brown cardigan. His blue eyes were murky and swollen. He nodded at the corner of the room and there she was.

Her head was propped up against the arm of the couch and her long blonde hair spilled over the side of it. One of her hands was on her stomach, the other hung limply at her side. She was still, except for her eyes, which twitched in their sockets as if she was dreaming.