TWENTY-EIGHTThe day had been cloudless and sunny, but three fat raindrops slithered down the windshield like diaphanous snakes as Jim Bullock looked up at his house. Darkness was blanketing the earth, so it was unusual for the lights to be off. The house should have been lit up with loud music playing at this hour. And Paco hadn’t opened the door and rushed to his car to greet him. His cop antenna rose. He exited the car cautiously, looking to his left and then his right as he headed up the walk to the front door and turned the knob. For once Paco had remembered his safety precaution to lock up. Jim put his key in the slot, slowly opened the door, and flipped on a light as he entered.
He was met with a sense of emptiness and foreboding that screamed and whispered simultaneously somewhere
