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With Skunk obediently waiting outside, Morgan raised her gun and cautiously stepped into the house.
The door creaked open, revealing a dim, dusty interior. Her eyes scanned the room, taking in the heaps of trash strewn across the floor and the stained mattresses haphazardly piled in one corner. A syringe lay discarded next to one of them, and a burnt spoon rested nearby – unmistakable evidence of heroin use.
"Damn," Morgan muttered under her breath, her heart pounding in her chest. This place was clearly a haven for addicts, and she couldn't help but wonder if Skipper had led her on a wild goose chase. But she couldn't afford to dismiss the possibility that Amos Lorenzo might be lurking somewhere within these walls.
As she crept further into the house, Morgan's mind raced with thoughts of the gruesome fate Mary Jenkins had met. Could Amos really be capable of such a heinous crime? And if he wasn't, who else could be responsible? Every creak of the floorboards beneath her feet sent a shiver down her spine, and she fought to keep her focus on the task at hand.
Silence answered her, but Morgan refused to be deterred. She would search every inch of this wretched place if she had to.
Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, and a thick layer of dust coated every surface. Morgan wrinkled her nose in disgust as she stepped carefully over a pile of discarded needles and syringes. The stench of drug use was unmistakable, and it made her stomach turn.
But despite the evidence of drug use, there was no indication that someone like Amos Lorenzo had ever been here.
Morgan frowned in frustration, feeling her earlier optimism slipping away. Was Skipper leading her astray? Why would he take her this far if he wasn't telling the truth? She didn't have any answers yet – only more questions.
But despite the fact that she hadn't found what she was looking for, Morgan refused to give up just yet. She'd come this far – there had to be something hidden inside this decrepit building that could lead her closer to Mary Jenkins' murderer. She still had to look upstairs.
Morgan's footsteps creaked on the rickety staircase, each groan of the aged wood amplifying her unease. The stale air that enveloped her was thick with the acrid smell of decay and neglect – a far cry from the sterile environment she'd expect from a former dentist.
She reached the top of the stairs, her gun still raised, and squinted in the dim light filtering through a grimy window. A faint sound caught her ear, drawing her attention to a door slightly ajar down the hallway. Her pulse quickened as she approached, the strange noise growing louder. What the hell is that? she thought, trying to identify it.
"Get a grip, Morgan," she whispered to herself, steeling her resolve. She exhaled slowly and pushed the door open with the barrel of her gun.
The sight that greeted her sent a chill up her spine.
CHAPTER SIX
Morgan's eyes adjusted to the sight in front of her. A man hunched over what appeared to be a makeshift surgical table, completely engrossed in his work. He seemed oblivious to her presence, his movements almost robotic as he meticulously molded and painted fake dentures. The room was filled with them, covering every available surface in a macabre display of artificial teeth.
Morgan's heart raced as she watched the man, trying to discern if he was Amos Lorenzo. It was hard to tell – his face was obscured by a shadow, and she could only see his profile. But the way he moved, the precision of his actions, made her think that he wasn't just some random addict in a dilapidated house. And the teeth. So many teeth.
She cleared her throat, raising her gun just a little higher. "Who are you?" she demanded, her voice steady despite the tremble in her hands.
The man didn't turn around at first, his movements slow and methodical as he finished the denture he was working on. Finally, he placed it carefully in a plastic bag and turned to face her.
Morgan's breath caught in her throat. It was Amos Lorenzo.
"You shouldn't be here," he said calmly, his voice surprisingly steady given the situation. "I don't like visitors."
Morgan took a step closer, trying to keep her composure. "I have some questions for you," she said, her eyes flickering over the rows of dentures that surrounded them. "About Mary Jenkins."
Amos raised an eyebrow, as if surprised by her audacity. "Why do you want to know?"
"Mary Jenkins is dead," she said flatly, watching him for any sign of reaction. "I think you had something to do with it."
"Interesting," the man mused. His eyes were cold and devoid of emotion, chilling Morgan to her core. "And what makes you so sure?"
"Because," she said, swallowing hard and forcing herself to maintain eye contact, "I've seen what you did to her teeth."
The man's lips curved into a sinister grin, sending another shiver down Morgan's spine. And though she couldn't be certain, something about him seemed to fit the twisted image of Amos Lorenzo in her mind. Morgan studied the man's face, her heart pounding in her chest. He looked like a shell of his former self, aged and emaciated. She steeled herself, pushing past the fear that threatened to paralyze her.
"Amos Lorenzo," she said, leveling her gun at him, "I'm Special Agent Morgan Cross with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Stand up. You're coming with me."
An eerie smile spread on his lips, his eyes devoid of any warmth or humanity. "It's been so long since I've seen a patient," he said, his voice cold and distant, as if he were barely present in the room. "What brings you here, Agent Cross?"
"Stand up," Morgan repeated, her patience wearing thin. "You're going to answer some questions about Mary Jenkins."
He met her gaze unflinchingly, making no move to comply. "You'll have to help me," he said calmly. "I haven't been able to get downstairs to eat in days. The usual people who help me aren't around, and I am not sure where they went. Perhaps they had no use for me anymore..."
