THE WHISPER
(Elena's POV)
He had described that door fifteen minutes earlier, and now there was a photograph of it lying on my kitchen table.
Grey paint. A room number beside it. A small square window in the middle, waist high, the kind you can see through but not hear through.
Damian held it under the lamp and didn't say anything for a long time.
"The house," he said. "Now."
He took the stairs. I followed him, because when he moves like that, arguing costs more than walking.
He went room to room and didn't turn on a single light. He looked behind curtains and under beds and inside cupboards. At Greta's door he stopped, stood there two seconds, and closed it again. He pulled the panel off the hallway thermostat and looked inside it. He checked the smoke detector above the kitchen an
