When we pass into what are clearly the more personal rooms of the house, my fascination grows. At the top of the stairs, we step into an office with a huge desk right at the center, scattered with the ashes of burned papers.
“Damn, that’s a shame,” Rose murmurs, taking pictures of whatever’s left.
“Yeah, Slaken burned what he couldn’t take,” Cole says with a sigh, leaning in the doorway. “Apparently the desk was rigged with little cherry bombs that he triggered as he went – little tiny fires in every drawer. It was clever.”
I listen, but my eyes are drawn like magnets to the walls, which are lined with shelf after shelf of…trophies.
Just lines of trophies, and medals, and awards. Some of them are shockingly normal, including a Little League trophy from childhood baseball. But others a
