Kale had left me what seemed like hours ago—I didn’t know where, because I hadn’t dared open my eyes—and no one had been by since. In reality, it had probably only been about ten or fifteen minutes, but it felt much longer. Slowly, I cracked one eye, and then the other. The room was barely bigger than a walk-in closet, with one door and no windows. I’d never been claustrophobic, but spending too much time in there might change that. There was a tiny bulb hanging from a wire in the middle of the ceiling—very Sopranos—and a single white folding chair in the corner with suspicious-looking dark stains on the backrest that trailed all the way down the right leg. They’d long since dried, but I had a pretty good idea what they were and could imagine all too well the ways they might have gotten there. I climbed to my feet and scanned the ceiling, inch by inch, then did the same with the walls and floor. No sign of a camera. Next I tried the door, which was, of course, locked.
