He waited for several seconds before knocking again, harder. When the door moved a fraction of an inch, he pushed it open. “Hello,” he called out. “Mina Landowski? Deputy Nick Rollins. I need to ask you some questions.” Like a family of spiders backpacking to his scalp, a funny feeling started at the base of his neck—a feeling he knew all too well from his tour in Afghanistan. He unsnapped the strap on his holstered sidearm, rested his hand on its handle, and stepped further into the unlit condo. A table lamp lay on its side on the carpeted living room floor, the bulb shattered. Something made of bright blue glass had either been dropped or thrown on the brick hearth in front of the cold fireplace. Rust colored splotches and smears marked a path from the wet bar back to the door. Nick grabbed his phone and punched in a number. “Ted, it’s me. The nurse’s condo has been trashed. She’s not here, and there’s a good bit of blood splashed around.” “I’ll call it in.”
