Night Film

35

Hopper took a step inside. I followed, sliding my hands along the wall, trying to find a light switch.

“Fuck,” he said, coughing. “The smell’s really bad.”

There was a grating screech as he accidentally tripped on something — a metal folding chair — then, fumbling with a lamp, the room was suddenly drenched in pale light.

It was small and stark, with a faded brown rug, a window with a torn shade, a sagging metal cot in a corner. Something about the way the sheets were thrown back, a green blanket dangling on the floor — a discernible dent in the pillow — seemed to suggest Ashley had just climbed out of it, moments ago. In fact, the entire shabby room hinted she’d just been here, the musty air still filled with her breathing.

The rank stench, a combination of sewage and burning, seemed to seep out of the walls. A brown stain covered the ceiling by the window, as if something had been slaughtered on the roof, then left to slowly bleed down into the rafters. The floor, strewn with a few plastic wrappers, was sticky from some type of dark soda that had spilled.

“Didn’t Devold say Ashley was wearing white pajamas when he broke her out of Briarwood?” Hopper asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“They’re right here.”

Sure enough — a pair of white cotton drawstring pants and a top had been tossed in a heap on the sheets.

Hopper seemed reluctant to touch them. I picked up the pants, noting with surprise not just that A. Cordova MH-314—her room number at Briarwood — had been printed along the inner waistband, but the legs still held her form. So did the top; cut in the boxy shape of surgical scrubs, the left sleeve still twisted around her elbow.

I put them back on the bed, stepping toward a small closet. There was nothing in there — just four wire hangers on a wooden rod.

“Something’s under here,” Hopper said. He was looking under the bed.

We grabbed the cot, carrying it to the center of the room, and then all three of us stared, bewildered, at what had just been exposed.

None of us said a word.