It had long been silent in the former industrial park on the outskirts of Harrowsfield. Empty warehouses appeared like sleeping giants in the moonlight. They were a reminder of a bygone era with rusted frames and broken windows. Secrets could freely circulate there, and people like Victor Lancaster would come to administer poison that appeared to be compassion. This place was extremely quiet, only broken by the distant hum of highway traffic and the sporadic screech of metal as it expanded and contracted in the cool night air. Because the bulbs in the streetlights had either burned out or been shot out and never replaced, they had been out of commission for months. Apart from the moon's silvery light, which gave everything a ghostly black-and-white appearance, the entire area was in comple
