CHASING MONSTERS
Somewhere far off, a woman sobbed, a low, broken sound that made my stomach twist.
“There,” I said, pointing toward a line of closed doors.
Kofi nodded. “We check them one by one.”
Old Man Harris grunted his agreement, his old bones still surprisingly quick on the uptake. “You’re leadin’, girl. Don’t get us killed.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said.
The first few doors were empty, storage, offices, a sterile kitchen with the faint scent of disinfectant. Then we found it, an office that looked like it belonged to someone important. Leather chair, glass desk, silver plaque on the door: Supervisor K. Voss.
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